Letting Go Of Perfect

Today, a new friend did my nails for free. From his perspective, I was the suffering guinea pig. From mine, I was getting a rare treat.

As a former chef of ten years, having my nails done was still a novelty. I’ve had them done twice in my life. Once at the local college before my prom for a knock-down price, and once again for my sister’s wedding. They were fine. Nice enough. Forgettable. This time felt different.

Little did he know, when he cautiously asked if I’d be willing to be a test subject, that one of the things I’d said when leaving my job in the UK was, I can’t wait to just actually get my nails done. This felt like a Cinderella moment. Internally I was saying, play it cool, this is an opportunity. Outwardly, I said I’d love that so much. Yes please.

In the lead-up, he kept warning me. I’m not a professional yet. I’ll be slow. They won’t be great. On the day itself, as he worked, he apologised constantly. He reminded me again and again that he was an amateur. That it would take longer. That he didn’t want to hurt me.

We were in the nail salon where he trained, and I watched him work with intense care. Other women, one of whom I knew was his teacher, would come over, lean in, and inspect closely. At one point, one of them stepped in to finish my cuticles. One of my naughty little nails even decided to bleed near the side, and he spent so much time and care making sure it stopped properly.

It struck me how high the standards were.

And how familiar it all felt.

It reminded me of kitchens. Of the precision of chive chopping being examined, or the consistency of a hollandaise judged under pressure, always under a clock. Standards that felt invisible to the customer but enormous to the person producing the work.

The whole process took four hours and fifteen minutes. It would have been shorter without the perfectionism. And yet, by the end, he was unhappy with what he’d done. Apart from the two tiny sloths on my ring fingers, which were exquisite. From my perspective, though, the whole set was exquisite.

Yes, undeniably, there were a few tiny flaws, but to the naked eye they were almost invisible.

Throughout the session, I watched him clean, correct, start again, take time, and build stress. And suddenly I was back in my bakery, taking a special birthday cake order. Spending hours icing it, chasing perfect edges, perfectly even layers, perfectly smooth finishes. The longer I worked, the uglier it seemed to me.

I remember thinking, I can’t charge them for this. They’ll hate it. It’s so ugly. I’d take photos from every angle, critiquing every section for being wonky, blemished, or overcrowded. I’d leave the cake boxed overnight and dread the next day, imagining the customer staring at it in disbelief and refusing to pay.

They never did.

The nails felt exactly like building a cake. Layer by layer. Trimming cuticles and filing, baking sponges and trimming edges. Base coat and crumb coat. Colour and decoration, fillings and toppings. Between each layer, you cure under a light or chill in the fridge to set. The process is methodical, careful, slow. And somehow, the closer you get to finishing, the harsher your own judgement becomes.

When customers collected their cakes, they were overjoyed. Impressed. In awe. They took photos. They showed their friends. Just like I couldn’t stop taking pictures of my nails, wanting to show everyone, while my friend and his trainer scrutinised every detail, pointing out flaws only they could see. He promised next time would be much better.

That’s the strange thing about making things for other people. The person creating it is often trapped inside the process, inside the pressure, inside the standards. The person receiving it just feels care. Time. Thought. Beauty.

You might think I’m writing this as a critique of perfectionism. After all, the title is Letting Go of Perfect. But I mean letting go in a different way. Chasing perfection can steal joy, yes, but playing devil’s advocate, it also means your minimum standard is exceptional. Even if you never reach perfection, it’s not a bad thing to aspire to.

What matters most, and what I recognise but sometimes forget, is that perfect does not exist. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s a careful balance. I think he should be easier on himself, but I also wouldn’t want him to lose that obsession with perfection, because I can see how much his talent has grown from it.

Tonight, I’m sitting here with my hands in front of me, admiring two tiny sloths and a set of nails made with patience and courage. They’re not perfect. They’re something better.

And honestly, if this is his version of imperfect, I can’t wait to see what comes next.