"...I fell in love with my toenails, toenails."

"Ew, Steph, that's disgusting! Cut your toenails," Naz said, wrinkling her nose in disgust, as she stared at my feet, horrified.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, glancing at my toenails and shrugging casually. "My toenails are too short to be cut. And it's not time to cut them, anyway."
I had never given much thought to my toenails. Fingernails, yes. I would cut them with a nail clipper or hack at them in a fit of desperation with a pair of tiny Swiss Army scissors during spotchecks at school. Eyebrows were a must, I got them done every two weeks or so in Bangsar, in a shop with Indians from India (how cool is that?). Haircuts, yes, but haircuts were compulsory. So was leg-waxing, along with a host of other things, like facials and teeth-checkups. That, I fully understand. But toenails? Toenails? They were completely harmless.
I had never cut my toenails unless it was completely necessary, like, for example, if:
a. my toenails had flaked and caught on my blanket at night.
b. I split and broke my toenail during Tae Kwan Do class, while kicking innocent people.
c. My mother would not stop nagging me to cut my toenails as I watched Amelie Mauresmo on TV.
In the worst-case situation, my mother would sometimes sneak into my room, armed with a pair of bazooka-sized nail clippers, while I slept, hapless and defenceless, and cut of my toenail (and a little bit of my toe, albeit rarely), looking completely disgusted. When I was forced to cut my toenails myself, I would do it more or less once in six months. Don't get me wrong, my toenails were perfectly clean and healthy and often painted embarrassing colors by my multitudes of girly little cousins who would come after me, armed with Cotton-Candy Pink and Snot Green at family reunions.
Honestly, I just didn't like the idea of getting rid of my toenails. There had to be a reason for their existence, and it wasn't like I was walking around barefoot everywhere, exposing my overgrown toenails to the world. The toenails only bothered my mother, my aunts, my grandmothers and my older female cousins, oh, and Naz, who seemed to be in my house a lot (get your own place, you bum!). Anyway, Naz continued to nag me about my toenails. She would make a good mother someday.
"Stephanieeeee," she said (nagged?). "Cut your damn toenails, will you? They'd probably bump up your shoe size from a size 8 to a size 9. How will you wear heels?"
"Why would I want to wear heels?" I stared at her like she was stupid. "Can you park your lips for one minute and let me watch Amelie Mauresmo in peace?"
"I'm starting a Get Steph Fernandez to Cut Her Toenails club," Naz harrumphed. "You'll be sorry!"
I didn't care. After all, Helen and Sarah, who saw my naked feet every week never had anything to say about it. That gave me an interesting idea -- maybe I should wash my feet and serve the water to Mrs. Vengket. I hate that woman, stupid tub of lard. But I digress.
"Amelie Mauresmo would be disgusted with your feet," Naz said, trying to hit me where it hurt; with Amelie.
"I don't care what Amelie thinks," I lied, trying to be sensitive. "I only care about what you think and you should take me the way I am, because you're my best friend," I told her, being overly-dramatic, something I do very well.
"Shut up, I'm Leisha Hailey's best friend and she definitely doesn't have disgusting feet," Naz snapped, getting into her black ford and driving off.
"How would you know?" I yelled back at the stupid, gas-guzzling 4x4, sticking out my tongue.
It was the best comeback I could come up with on such short notice, but really. How would she know?
My toenails looked sad that Naz didn't like them, so I decided to remove the Orange Orgasm nail polish on them. While I was doing this, my mother passed by my room.
"Oh, are you cutting your toenails?" she asked, looking absolutely overjoyed at this.
I shook my head. "No, it's only May. I cut them in January. I'll only cut them in December."
My mother's face turned rather green and she walked away. As I heard her making vomit noises in the bathroom, I started reminiscing about my toenails. I loved my toenails. We had a connection that was so much deeper than Dolly Parton and her breasts, Jessica Simpson and her brain, Jennifer Lopez and her butt, Angelina Jolie and her lips, Roger Federer and his nose, Kuan Ngee and her eye, or Malays and their tudungs, because, after all, you don't see them without it, so I guess that makes it part of them already. I'll have to check about that.
My toenails have feelings. They like black nail polish and colorful toe-socks. They speak to me and claim that their names are Paris, Britney, Nicole, Christina, Madonna, Miley, Lindsay, Vanessa, Mary-Kate and Ashley. My toenails fall in love, especially when they see pictures of Rafael Nadal's naked feet on the internet. My toenails like growing long and wild, and cry when people tell me to cut them or say they're ugly. My toenails hate scented nail-polish-remover and love long walks on the beach. Otherwise, my toenails are quite happy in sneakers, but only with brightly-colored toe-socks. Nothing can come between my toenails and I, now and forever. Not even Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, with his three long fingernails per hand (yes, I know they're not really fingernails, but bear with me -- I'm on a roll here). My toenails and I are one -- Paris, Britney, Nicole, Christina, Madonna, Miley, Lindsay, Vanessa, Mary-Kate, Ashley and me. Without them, I am nothing. With them, I am... Sabretoe!