Removing Dip Powder Nails At Home

When the kids and I quarantined ourselves 11 days ago, my husband continued to go to work. He’s a Sales Manager at the biggest Chevy dealership in town, and for whatever reason, car dealerships are considered necessary during a pandemic.

First of all, who the hell is out buying cars right now? You do not need a new car. You need to stay at home like the rest of us who want this horrible self-isolation thing to end ASAP so we can get back to regular life. No, I’m not wallowing in self pity at all, shut up and mind your own business.

Robbie says he is thankful that he still has a job, because people are being laid off right and left. The rational side of me is thankful, too. The irrational side, which sometimes finds me eating chocolate icing directly from the container while I cry on the floor of my closet, is royally pissed.

When it sunk in that nail salons, hair salons, and other such things were closing up shop for an unknown period of time, my first thought was oh shit, my roots, immediately followed by oh shit, my nails.

If you’ve never had dip nails before, allow me to explain. I’ve been a nail and cuticle biter for as long as I can remember. Gel manicures tend to last two days at the most, and any attempt to do my own nails produces a result that looks a lot like that of my children.

My therapist was the one who told me to try dip nails. After the first time I did it last summer, I was hooked. It didn’t matter what I put my hands through, the manicure looked amazing. It’s like concrete, so there’s no way to pull it or peel it off — awesome, right? Except when there’s a pandemic. Then it isn’t awesome at all.

Reader, please join me as I embark on a journey into the unfamiliar territory of do-it-yourself tutorials. I hope you’re excited, because I can hardly contain myself.

You might be wondering why my face looks a little … off. Well friends, I realized several hours too late that I’d only filled in one of my eyebrows. If that doesn’t sum up my entire existence at the moment, I don’t know what does.

The materials I used in the removal process are as follows:

  1. 100% pure acetone
  2. Aluminum foil
  3. Heavy-duty nail file
  4. Cotton balls
  5. Glass bowl

This situation reminds me a lot of the time I decided I could give myself a bikini wax at home: arrogant and misguided.

I told myself that surely I could do the removal just like they do in the nail salon, which was a lie, of course. I’ve already explained to you that I’m not even capable of painting my nails decently, so I think we all know how this is going to end.

Here are the steps:

  1. File off the top layer of each nail
  2. Soak a cotton ball in acetone
  3. Put cotton on top of fingernail and,
  4. Wrap with aluminum foil.

My right hand was easy because I’m left handed. I really struggled to do my left hand, so my kids stepped in to help. I’ll let you guess how that went. After realizing this wasn’t quite going according to plan, I ended up taking all the foil wads off my fingers and sticking my fingers into a bowl full of acetone.

I soaked until I could no longer feel the tips of my fingers, then pulled my hands out of the bowl and used a rough paper towel to wipe off the melted dip goo.

Repeat eleventy hundred times, and you get this:

After cutting my nails and filing the remainder of the dip off (that’s a lie, I totally gave up on filing and decided to just live with it until it grows out), I found a cheerful shade of polish that adequately covered the black spots that I still have on my fingers.

So, yeah. I’m pretty anxious to be released from isolation/social distancing so I can once again let the professionals work their magic, but until then, I’ll be sharing the wonders of DOING IT YOURSELF DURING A PANDEMIC!

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The Beehive.

I AM A VAIN PERSON. There, I said it.

It takes me a long time to get ready if I’m going out. I never leave home without at least minimal makeup on, and before I had kids I would literally lie in bed at night planning out what I was going to wear the next day. Apparently deep, intellectual thinking is not my forte.

Earlier this week, I was in the restroom chatting with one of the ladies from my Zumba class when she stopped mid-sentence and asked incredulously, “Are you putting on LIPSTICK?!”

Yes. Yes, I was. I was putting on lipstick, right before an exercise class, in an all-ladies gym. Vanity doesn’t have to make sense, people. Have you ever seen the women with the looooooong fake nails that have jewels glued to them? Does that make sense to you? How the hell do they take care of their basic needs with those talons in the way?

BUT WAIT. It doesn’t have to make sense. Because, vanity.

My hair has always been my pride and joy, despite the fact that it has the consistency of hay if I don’t beat it into submission on the daily and the natural blonde color has darkened to more of a gross dishwater brown with each pregnancy (I have also noticed a significant increase in silver strands, thank you motherhood). My hair is the one thing that has remained recognizable to me over the years. It didn’t get stretch marks or scars. It’s not starting to wrinkle, like my neck.

Knowing all of this, you can probably understand why it’s vital that only someone who is both sober and skilled be allowed to mess with my hair. I have tried coloring it myself, and we all know how that turned out (note: badly). I have tried to cut corners and save money by going to some cheap place or letting students do it.

Three years ago, I even had someone cut and color my hair who was in the active stages of drunkenness. I mean, I do live in the Deep South where day drinking is both encouraged and socially acceptable … but not when you’re holding a pair of scissors. I was too freaked out to figure out what to do, so I literally sat frozen with fear and prayed for a miracle.

My prayer was not answered.

My hair was ruined.

I went to The Beehive Salon in Baton Rouge, LA several days later because someone needed to fix everything that was wrong, and blessedly, no one there drinks on the job. Pam Panepinto, co-owner of the salon and hair extraordinaire, righted everything that was wrong that time, and every time since. I want to hug her every time I see her, both because I am so happy to be away from the never-ending laundry pile at my house, and because I know she’s going to turn me from haggard to hot in 2 hours flat.

Sometimes people will say, “Haggard? What haggard?! Roots?! What roots?! ” Mmm-hmm. I prepared for that by taking before and after pictures after my last visit to the salon. Let’s take a little trip down haggard-to-hot lane, shall we?

Do you still want to tell me that you don't see roots? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

Do you still want to tell me that you don’t see roots? I DIDN’T THINK SO.

20150211_095806IMG_20150211_10260120150211_113702Pretty impressive transformation, right?!

My vanity says yes.

Because they are so amazing, the people at The Beehive are offering all new clients who mention my blog a 20% off discount. You don’t even have to mention it nicely. You can say Modern Mommy Madness is a freaking lunatic and I want to punch her in the face, and they will still give you the discount. And you will leave looking hot.

Visit their website for a full menu of services, and be sure to tell me about your experience if you decide to go! Maybe we can be Eskimo sisters of hair.

This post is sponsored by The Beehive Salon. But even if they weren’t sponsoring it, I’d still tell you how awesome they are.