For three decades, I did not care about my nails. As a result, they were usually more than a little scruffy: peeling, dry, chipped, and filed (or, more accurately, broken) to different lengths.
My desire to have pretty nails coincided almost to the day with giving birth; all of a sudden, I had to let go of any reasonable certainty that I would be able to leave the house and interact with other human beings while looking anything close to presentable, and something about having polished, manicured, non-chipped nails made me feel better about that.
Like I had something, even a small thing like my fingernails, under control. "See?! I may look like I haven't slept in three weeks and I may or may not be wearing a shirt, but damn, my 'I'm Not Really A Waitress' polish looks hot."