My Little Seashells

My Little Seashells –– ⭐⭐
I've never felt so much pain while getting gel nails done. The UV lamp was BURNING. Also, the shape of the nails is odd––curving upwards. This is not how my nails are naturally shaped, so it must be because of how the tips were applied. Unfortunately, I noticed this later, when already at home.

My Little Seashells –– ⭐
All good reviews gotta be fake, this place is virtually a doorstep to hell with extremely disappointing and disrespectful staff. If possible, I’d give them -5 stars.

The hyponychium––the layer of skin just beneath the nail plate––burns as if it wants to peel itself off my body. I have new claws made of acrylic––pointed, iridescent like the inside of an oyster with a flesh-coloured ellipse in the middle that fades outwards into a shimmering mother-of-pearl. At the very tips, there’s even more pink—like they’ve already drawn blood. Finally, Jen slowly and meticulously applies a thick layer of transparent nail polish.

A thick, herbal plume seeps from one of the backrooms mixing with the acrylic and licorice filled air. The scents form a sickly cloud, its pungent acrylic spikes burrowing into my throat. My mouth is dusty and dry, as if I hadn't had anything to drink for hours.

The burning sensation under my natural nails intensifies and spreads until it spills over the nail bed and into my fingers. Tongues of fire lick outward, trying to swallow them whole without chewing. Over the past hour, my hands have been dipped in all kinds of substances—from soapy to oily—then scrubbed, rinsed and moisturised. Now, they are smooth as fridge-cold butter and pleasantly warm. I blink rapidly, trying to shake off a dizzy feeling. A persistent hum has been sitting behind my eyes, between my ears, since the ritual started.

The ritual begins the moment you cross the threshold into My Little Seashells where the air is not the same as the air you breathe outside. Here, the air is infused with licorice that swallows your body whole and sticks to your hair and clothes for days. The window displays an eclectic assortment of seashells, sea glass, and various ocean-themed objects—including multiple dried starfish and a single lavender plastic pony with green hair—all suspended from fishing lines. As guests enter, a gust of wind accompanies them. This makes the collection dance and gently collide, producing a soft tinkling and clinking that momentarily interrupts the background hum of steadily buzzing electric nail drills. The noise immediately envelops the space, effectively drowning out the outside world, absorbing every guest as wholly as the greedy licorice.

Sometimes, there is a brief wait, but never longer than an hour. Jennie serves a sweet drink that causes a slight lightheadedness. She never asks what I want; she only ever asks, hot or cold? The cold option resembles a dark green slushy that smells like woodruff. The hot drink is a viscous, milk-based liquid with a floral, orchid-like flavour, topped with something like cinnamon. I've only had the slushy once––it gave me a brain freeze after three hectic sips. Jennie also measures your temperature before and after you drink. After taking mine for the second time today, she looks at me regretfully and tells me to choose the cold drink next time. She directs me to room number 2, where Jen greets me with a quick smile. I think every woman working here has chosen a variation of the name Jennifer. Before I receive my next beverage, she immerses my hands into the first of multiple baths. This time, I'm not offered a choice of drinks. I receive a clear watery substance––too thick to be water––that tastes tart like Cherry Coke.

While my hands soak, Jen asks the usual questions:
Have I been happy with my last nails?
Have they worked properly?
How have I been?
What am I looking forward to?
What do I need?
What do I need. I don't know. Normally, Jen tells me what I need. She smiles softly when I don’t say anything and lifts my hands out of the first bath. The liquid has turned from a sage green to a bluish shade, like algae or a peppermint bath bomb. Her own fingers are equipped with pointed, pale yellow acrylic nails, each pierced at the front with several small silver metal rings. While she rubs my hands roughly with a moss-colored exfoliating cream, she stares intently at the lines on the inside of my fingers. My thoughts wander and get lost in the airiness of my body. The last thing I see before closing my eyes is the gentle bobbing movement of the jellyfish in their small tank at the corner of my vision. Drifting off, my own body mirrors their form, becoming jellyfish—soft, floaty, and drifting. All I see now is a frothy blend of coral and oval shapes, flooding my consciousness.

When I resurface, Jen taps me gently on the wrists, signaling me to move them under the UV light. That’s when the burning begins––faint at first, a gnawing sensation in my fingertips that slowly intensifies. I see my fingers now as if for the first time, and I am captivated. They’ve transformed into long, pearlescent claws that shimmer with an almost translucent quality. The centre glows with a corally flesh colour, seamlessly blending into iridescent edges. After the curing process, Jen gently withdraws my hands and immerses them into a large glass bowl filled with ice-cold turquoise liquid emitting a faint spearmint aroma––not unlike mouthwash. The chilling solution envelops my arms up to the elbows, soothing the burn to a dull throb. Mouthwash mingles with licorice in the air, and dizziness washes over me again. Jen instructs me to soak until she returns, leaving me alone with the jellyfish. They appear more animated now, pulsating rhythmically. My hands in the liquid no longer burn––they’re numb, sagging at odd angles, as if my bones have softened. The state of my arms reminds me of a poem about a carnivorous mouth, a flesh-eating plant and their intimate relationship. In the end, the mouth becomes the plant and vice versa. Their fleshy kiss melts them into one. My nails are the plant, my bones the mouth––and they try to kiss. Just when I think they might succeed, Jen returns. She takes the bowl and pours the now cloudy liquid into the jellyfish tank. No longer pacified, the burning returns in full force. Jen applies a transparent top coat, finger by finger, while I sip on my last beverage: thin herbal tea with rubbery jelly pieces. I hadn't realised how thirsty I was. When she finishes the last finger, the burning subsides, replaced by soothing warmth that spreads through my fingertips.
 

My Little Seashells –– ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Good result, but a bit brutal.

My Little Seashells –– ⭐⭐⭐
It's been a week since I got them done and they are perfect. Only negative point: the gel they use to make the acrylics BURNT when I put them in the UV light (they acted very chill about it).

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Nina Kuttler ist bildende Künstlerin und Autorin. In ihrer künstlerischen Praxis arbeitet sie mit einer Vielzahl von Medien – darunter Video, Hörspiel, Klanginstallation, Text und Keramik. Sie nutzt spekulative Fiktion und forschungsbasierte Narration, um zu untersuchen, wie Naturwissenschaft und Geschichtsschreibung anthropozentrische Weltbilder prägen. Ihren letzten Besuch im Nagelstudio würde sie mit vier von fünf Sternen bewerten.

https://ninakuttler.com

@nina.kttlr

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Aus der Reihe Hexengeschichten initiert von Judith Kisner anlässlich der Ausstellung •// ✿ //• Anna Bochkova und Judith Kisner (20. März 2025 – 6. April 2025) im Kunstverein GastGarten.