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Dear Nail Biters Anonymous,

I'm hopeful this note finds you well - and well-manicured.

May your cuticles be soft and your nail beds firm.

I write to you in confidence.

As a whistleblower.

And I hope you'll take this seriously, for it's a most serious matter.

I fear you may have a rogue practitioner in your midst, operating unchecked, presenting a grave risk to the nail-biting community.

And while many decades have passed, I am offering this account to bring justice to those deserving of it.

I implore you:

how many nails are you putting at risk by not acting with haste?

Many years ago, at the ripe age of 12, my mother announced I would be seeing a Russian hypnotist.

This would be no ordinary human, but rather a Mad Russian (this, a name he'd given himself) hailing from Brookline, MA.

He claimed an ability to modify behavior through - get this - bio-energy.

With a 6-month-long waitlist, he was semi-famous in small circles, known to cure the most challenging addictions.

His forte was helping mostly discontent housewives break their pack-a-day cigarette habits - with some minor news coverage serving to validate the claims.

Fear not, at my preteen age, I wasn't banging Chesterfields out behind the middle school.

It was my incessant nail-biting (a habit, I might add, the very same mother had imprinted upon me) that left my fingernails, on most days, looking like the edges of uncooked pizza, or as if I had wilted rubber bands for fingers.

On the day of the appointment, I climbed the stairs to the Russian's unmarked second-floor office for a closed-door tête-à-tête.

I would be seeing the man alone, as my mother was told to wait in the car downstairs.

Upon entering the room, this Naughty Russian's eyes met mine, likely evaluating my susceptibilities (I have many, but few that he would be aware of).

He was round-faced and extra-able-bodied with overtired eyes; his unshaven jowls braced a greasy comb-over haircut suffocating a bald patch.

Eventually, he leaned forward, wrapping his stubby fingers around my collarbone, and brought his face close to mine, nose to nose, his breath a concoction of roast beef and flavored mouthwash.

"You touch doorknobs with fingers?"

"Is safe?" he began.

"Doorknobs have billions germs. When nails bite, you lick germs, makes you sick," and then he squished his face like a jellyfish.

He waited. I waited. It was a standoff, I think.

Then, while gesticulating as if pulling taffy from the air, he tried to cast his spell:

"One hundred strangers touch before you. Maybe two hundred. I use sleeve. I trust nobody - especially doorknob.”

In the car, my mother smiled when I described the encounter. She said oftentimes the strongest of minds aren't aware they have been hypnotized, and the evidence would be evident soon enough.

A compelling argument indeed.

Nevertheless, apparently the only thing hypnotized was my mother's checkbook, as 40+ years later, I continue to consistently pick and nibble my cuticles, lost in thought, subconsciously trying to make uneven things as even as possible, in the most impossible of ways.

Which is all to say, I believe this Rascally Russian is doing great harm to the nail-biting community and to those who carry the true burden of onychophagia.

I do hope you pay attention to this matter - or, if not, please provide me his contact info so that he may again attempt to rid me of this horrific habit.

Please destroy this correspondence after reading. And use your sleeve when opening the doorknob.

Sincerely,

The Bedwetter

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