There may be a war in Ukraine, but almost nothing can get in the way of a Kyiv manicure

In April 2022, The Irish Times deputy foreign editor Dave McKechnie died unexpectedly. He was a highly valued colleague who left behind a rich journalistic legacy.
A gifted editor with a background in subediting, Dave was also an accomplished reporter and writer. As well as landmark reports from Colombia and Myanmar, he also had a long track record in sports journalism. His work across all subjects showed considerable insight and flair and no little humour.
To commemorate his work, The Irish Times launched a journalism prize in his memory. The Irish Times Dave McKechnie Memorial Journalism Prize took the form of a writing competition.
The winner was Liz Cookman, who wrote a Ukraine Letter, below. The first runner-up was Ailbhe McMahon with a Varanasi Letter. The second runner-up was Sorcha Lanigan, who wrote an Athlone Letter. Their pieces will be published next week.
Yulia carefully removes the cornflower-blue varnish she applied to my nails three weeks ago with an electric file, the rotating bit razing it to a cloud of pastel-hued powder. The downtown Kyiv nail parlour is a calming haven of brown noise – whirring sterilisation machines and esoteric electronic music – but it is suddenly interrupted by the doom-filled howl of a nearby air raid siren.
Yulia looks up at me from across the manicure table, rolls her dark eyes and moves on to the next finger. There may be a war in Ukraine, regular drone and missile attacks and blackouts, but almost nothing can get in the way of a manicure.
This salon, a sterile mix of minimalist white decor and strip lights called Backstage, is lucky – it has electricity most days. In a nearby underpass, technicians work almost in the dark, hunched under spot lamps powered by generators. The return of rolling power cuts has the capital’s streets humming with the sound of diesel generator exhausts, and smelling like a travelling fairground, in a way not seen since the first winter of the war. Yet beauty remains serious business – the industry was among the first to bounce back after the chaos of Russia’s 2022 invasion forced small businesses to shutter and it’s still going strong.
Salons have been known to stay open under occupation and on the days when there is no running water or central heating. They open after overnight missile strikes have reduced nearby buildings to rubble. “We will open even if Putin drops a nuclear bomb,” a salon owner once joked to me as volunteers fixed wooden boards to her bomb-smashed windows.
It makes sense, Ukrainian women are, after all, famed for their beauty. It is a stereotype decried by liberal Kyivans as fetishistic and harmful, but looks feel important here. Hair is often long and impossibly silky, nails immaculate. Carefully curated outfits are de rigueur, from the trendy (milkmaid dresses and Adidas Sambas) to the more avant-garde (elaborate gothic eyeliner and sailor hats). Female journalists who visit from abroad often feel sheepish and seek salon recommendations – “I’m ashamed for anyone here to see my hands,” a senior reporter told me.
With its state-of-the-art air defences donated by overseas allies, Kyiv is lucky compared to the country’s war-stricken east, and vulnerable cities near the frontline, such as Kharkiv and Kherson. Security is tight enough that life has a strong sense of normality, at least during the day – night brings a military curfew, frequent sirens and the explosive booms of air defences firing, or worse. Yet despite the relative safety, few are untouched by tragedy. Tens of thousands of Ukrainians have been killed so far and prosthetic limbs are now a common sight.
The machismo of frontline fighting often overshadows a silent battle that is fought by Ukraine’s women, who shoulder grief and economic hardship while keeping businesses and families going. For some, the seemingly frivolous pursuits of beauty and fashion offer a psychological lifeline. Routines and rituals give a sense of control amid the pain and uncertainty, and self-care is a vital weapon in the battle to keep mental, physical and emotional welfare on-track. Small everyday acts of resistance are about “finding space for living amid surviving and existence”, as MP Lesia Vasylenko recently tweeted.
As people fled the brutal siege of Mariupol in the early months of the war in cars with shattered windscreens and riddled with shrapnel punctures, I was amazed to meet multiple women who had managed to retain the last remnants of their manicures. “My appearance is very important to me,” said one of them, Liudmyla, who had shrapnel wounds in her face from a recent missile strike. One of the first things she did after reaching a humanitarian hub in Ukrainian-held Zaporizhzhia was head to the bathroom to apply lipstick. “I just want to feel like myself again,” she said.
Beauty is also a form of self-expression, a marker of identity – a victim of the Bucha massacre, Iryna Filkina, was identified by her manicurist from newspaper images of her muddy upturned hand and blood-red polish. Defining your identity is important in this war, as Russia seeks to impose its own ideas about who Ukraine, and Ukrainians, should be.
After 2½ years living in Ukraine and almost as much of war, the meditative calm of a salon trip and the sense of certainty created by grooming have become important to me, too. Yulia finishes my nails off with a baby-pink varnish. I tell her that on a recent trip to a friend’s wedding in Cork the bride was so impressed by my nails, the perfect edges and smooth finish, we decided Ukraine has the best manicures in the world.
“Da,” she agrees, laughing. Then the lights turn out.
Liz Cookman is a freelance reporter who has been living in Ukraine for the last 2½ years.