I don't don't have my nails professionally cared for. I'm afraid of the high risk of contracting fingernail/toenail fungus. And to keep The Squeeze happy I try to remember to clip, file, and buff them my fingernails instead of unconsciously biting them.
However, when I was 30 I belonged to a mountain climbing/hiking group made up of mostly granola engineers (those guys who get up and 3:00 AM, slap on their 3-pin cross country skis, and death march up nearby peaks a couple of times before breakfast just to get in some short powder runs).
During this time in my life I had passed out (mostly from exhaustion) at a party. During my deep snooze some friends took off my shoes and stockings, then painted all of my toenails a deep lustrous red. Basically, that's the end of the story. I didn't bother with the effort of removing the nail polish because I knew it would wear/wash off in a week or two.
Following Saturday I join my hiking buddies and we proceeded up Wheeler Peak in Nevada's Great Basin National Park. Although you can drive two thirds of the way there, the last four miles are not for the faint hearted. It was late spring and we slogged through plenty of melting snow fields. Finally, at the top of the peak we broke out the usual bottles of wine and odd stuff one buys to eat on a hike (smoked clams? Summer sausage (AKA stick meat), baguettes of French bread, and stinky cheeses).
We all had soaking wet feet and plenty of time to remove our hiking boots and wring out our several layers of wet socks. I pulled off my Vasque Whitneys, then removed my wool hiking socks only to blind my companions with brilliant red toenails. Everyone fell quiet. I simply shrugged my shoulders and stated, "It's a long story." But my hiking buddies never treated me quite the same after that colorful display.