Call me Nails

Call Me Nails

Posted by Caleb — Chronicles of a Quiet Fighter

You know, at first, I thought it was just a passing comment.
A few customers started calling me “Nails.”
Not Caleb. Not even “hey, you.” Just… Nails.
Because my fingernails are long. Neatly trimmed. Clean. Sometimes even polished.
And apparently, that’s worth pointing out.

At first, it sat weird in my chest.
That sharp little sting of being seen—not in the way I want to be, but through someone else’s lens.
A little too feminine for some folks.
A little too polished.
A little too much.

But here’s the thing:
I take care of my hands. I like how my nails look. They’re clean, tidy, and they feel like me.
Not because they’re “girly.” Not because they’re “rebellious.”
But because they’re mine.

So I did what quiet fighters do.
I claimed the name.

Call me Nails.

Not as a joke, but as a badge.
Because these nails have filled parts bins and washed dishes and wiped away tears.
These hands have comforted customers, built engines, and held onto reality during a meltdown.
And if my clean hands confuse you—good.
If they challenge your ideas of gender—good.

I am autistic.
And I express myself with purpose.
Sometimes that includes nail polish. Sometimes it doesn’t.
But always—it includes me.

So when you call me Nails, know this:
You’re not teasing me.
You’re acknowledging the part of me that chose softness in a world that only values rough.
You’re naming the part of me that shines, even when everything else feels dull.

Yeah. Call me Nails.
I earned that.