Fingernails

I have been a fingernail biter my whole life. I don’t know where it came from, or what latent anxiety inspired the habit. I can’t even remember when I first started doing it. At some point “nail biter” became, if not as true, at least as associative of a statement about me as something like “Chinese” or “male.”

You might think that such a comparison to something like race or gender is extreme, but consider this: the habit, when it lasts, imprints itself physically to one’s body in a permanent fashion. A scarlet letter marks all of us who nervously nibble at the nails. Start looking at the hands of the people around you. You’ll see.

It’s one of the traits that I notice very quickly about a person. I think it paints an extra dimension to someone’s character, their personality. It’s a tacit admission of imperfection.

Or, of course, they could just play an instrument . One of the reasons I am so cavalier with keeping my fingernails short is because I use the excuse of playing the violin to justify it. I know many use clippers instead of their own teeth, but a good proportion of string instrument players that I’ve met, including all my violin teachers, have had the uneven, fraying nails of a biter. An interesting correlation.

I remember trying to quit the habit when I was younger; my mother was very adamant that we tried it. We went by the usual home remedies of rubbing bitter Chinese medicine tinctures and lemon juice on my nails at night so I wouldn’t bite them in bed. It failed. I developed a taste for bitter and sour foods instead.

We stopped trying after that.