Crooked Again by Jaqueline

Crooked Again by Jaqueline - August 2026 Scholarship Essay

The video pauses halfway through a French tip. I lean so close to my screen that my nose is basically touching the laptop. My favorite nail artist, Sion K, glides the brush like nothing, making it look so easy. I press pause, look down at my nail, and try to copy the design. Nope. Crooked again. Sigh. I wiped it with acetone and started over. Six hours later? My room smells like a nail salon exploded: acetone fumes, filing dust everywhere, glitter flying around. My back was killing me, sitting with one foot propped up, but I don't care. My laptop is still on the same tutorial. My Pinterest board was full of perfect sets; meanwhile, I struggled to paint a straight line. Still, I tried again.
By high school, my room had basically turned into a mini salon. I spent afternoon after afternoon replaying Sion K’s tutorials, pausing every few seconds to compare my nails to the screen. At first I copied every step exactly. But eventually the tutorials felt less like instructions and more like puzzles. I started wondering why I needed a dehydrator. Why does the polish wrinkle under the lamp? Why did hers look smooth while mine flooded my cuticles? I wasn’t very good, but I thought I was finally getting the hang of it. I stopped treating every mistake like something to erase and started treating it like feedback. Every crooked line, every wrinkled coat, every flooded cuticle showed me exactly what I needed to change the next time.
Then a girl beside me in class glanced at my nails and went, “Yikes.” I spent the rest of the day with my hands hiding inside my hoodie sleeves, embarrassed. I went home, wiped everything off, and tried again. At first, I wanted to forget the comment ever happened. Instead, I looked at my nails the way she had. The lines really were uneven. The polish really was too thick. It wasn't the reaction I wanted, but it made me realize that feedback wasn't there to tell me to stop. It showed me where I still had room to grow.
The nail set that I'll never forget is the one I did before junior year. I found this insane nail set on Pinterest with gold chrome, black French tips, and 3D gel design. Gold chrome? Sure. 3D gel? Never. Six long hours later, I was almost done, except for one nail. Double French tip. Paint, mess up, wipe. Paint, mess up, wipe. I spent fifteen minutes on one nail because I knew if I left it crooked, it would bother me every time I looked at my hands. But when I finally finished? I was obsessed. I took pictures from every angle. I tried different lighting, backgrounds, the whole thing. Days later in the school bathroom, a girl asked, “How much did you pay for those?” I smiled. “I did them myself.” She saw glossy black nail polish. I saw years of flooded cuticles, replayed tutorials, comments that stung, and afternoons spent on my bedroom floor, trying again and again.
Teaching myself nail art changed the way I learn. I used to think feedback meant I wasn't good enough. Now I see it as the fastest way to improve. I stopped seeing every mistake as something to get rid of and started seeing it as something I could learn from, feedback taught me to stop chasing perfection and start asking better questions. What can I fix? What can I do differently? What is this mistake trying to teach me?
If someone gave me a machine that made the perfect nail set in ten seconds, I wouldn't want it. I love changing my mind halfway through a design, wiping off a crooked French tip, and figuring things out as I go. That's the part I've enjoyed the most. Weeks after they've grown out, I catch myself looking down and smiling. I remember every redo, every tiny improvement, and every hour that made them my nails. More importantly, I remember that every piece of feedback, whether it came from a tutorial, someone else's comment, or my own mistakes, shaped the way I approach every new challenge: not as a test of whether I'm talented enough, but as another opportunity to learn.