Hi, I'm Mona. I make every set myself.

From the time I was very young, I drew things. On notebooks, on walls, on my own hands. Growing up in Mirpur, I was always the girl in class who was decorating something — the one teachers asked to make the bulletin board, the one who couldn't sit through a lesson without doodling in the margins. It was never a plan. It was just how I was made.

When it came time to choose a degree, there was never really a question. I studied Fine Arts — because nothing else made sense for someone who had spent her whole life making things. In university, I discovered I wasn't just drawn to one medium. I could do bridal mehndi, sit with a bride for three hours and design something intricate and personal just for her. I painted. I worked with resin — the kind of detailed, precise work where you pour layers and wait and correct and pour again. I made personalised name plates and gift pieces that people still message me about years later. My hands knew how to learn.

But here's the thing nobody talks about: I am a practicing Muslim. And for years, I watched beautiful nail designs and wished — genuinely wished — I could wear them. Traditional nail polish isn't compatible with wudu. Water has to reach the nail bed for ablution to be valid, and a coat of polish blocks that. Salon acrylics have the same problem — you can't take them off five times a day. I kept hearing other women say the same thing. We wanted our nails to be beautiful. We didn't want to compromise our prayers to do it. Press-on nails changed that for me completely. You remove them before wudu. You put them back on after. They stay on for days at a time — and on your terms. I started making them because I needed them for myself. And then I realised how many other women needed them too.

The bridal angle came from watching the women around me. Pakistani wedding season is something else — three events minimum, each with its own look, its own lehenga, its own vibe. I saw brides going to salons the morning of their mehndi to get acrylics done, then doing it again for baraat, then again for valima — each session two to three hours, each one leaving their nails thinner and more fragile than before. And all of it rushed, because appointments run late and weddings start early and nobody has time for mistakes. I knew press-ons could be the answer. One order, weeks in advance, three coordinated looks waiting in a box. No last-minute panic. No damaged nail beds the week after your wedding.

I won't pretend the beginning was easy. There was a period — honestly, longer than I'd like to admit — where I doubted whether this was real, whether people would trust something made by one person in Mirpur rather than a bigger brand. My family believed in me before I fully believed in myself. My husband encouraged me to keep going when I wanted to step back. And slowly, order by order, it became real. Customers from Lahore, Karachi, Islamabad — women who found me on Instagram, placed one order, and came back. That trust is the thing I'm most careful about protecting. Every set that leaves my hands, I've checked. Every measurement I've taken seriously. If something isn't right, I'd rather start over than send it.

This is still a one-person business. That's not a limitation — it's the point.