Lizzo Rocks Green Manicure as St. Patrick’s and Purim Collide in Style Showdown

Max Sterling, 3/3/2026 When March arrives, Chicago dyes rivers green, synagogues erupt in noise, and nail salons join the fray. From leprechauns to hamantaschen, this article celebrates the riotously colorful, joyfully defiant spirit of St. Patrick’s Day and Purim—because surviving winter deserves a parade (or at least, a great manicure).

Chicago doesn’t just join the fray; it leads the parade with gusto (and—let’s be honest—a hint of competitive Irish pride that borders on performance art). Forget subtlety. Once a year, the Chicago River throws off its sober, workaday color and explodes with impossible, radioactive green, thanks to union plumbers doubling as alchemists in windbreakers. The transformation isn’t slow or shy. Orange dye hits the water, an odd choice at first, before—presto!—it blooms emerald just in time for cellphone cameras primed and hungry for the Instagram gold rush.

This triumph is short-lived, though. Choose Chicago, never one for understatement, describes the hue as sticking around “for a few hours.” Blink, and it fades; snap the photo, then grab a pint, because nothing neon persists. Perhaps there’s a parable tucked away there—joy is meant to be seized, not scheduled for later.

Parade day is a spectacle in its own right, less procession and more communal exclamation point. Floating leprechauns? Absolutely. Bagpipers who look like they were born with a kilt on? You bet. Each float competes not for subtlety but for gleeful absurdity, looping Columbus Drive in a dance of tradition and city pride. The organizers have declared the 2025 theme: “Faith, Peace and Unity.” These are, incidentally, the only things louder than a marching band echoing off skyscraper glass.

But the city’s love affair with green doesn’t end in downtown’s concrete canyons. South Side hosts its own processional, crowded with generations who treat Irishness like a sacred heirloom. Over in Beverly/Morgan Park, local flavor isn’t just preserved, it’s thrown a block party—reportedly the biggest St. Patrick’s shindig outside of Dublin itself. There’s a North Side answer to this too, each neighborhood reimagining what ‘going green’ means. Spoiler: no two parades ever look quite the same.

Yet, for those whose March calendar extends past riverside revelry, another celebration unfolds in quieter corners—Purim, a holiday spun from ancient heroics and kept alive by stubborn memory and contagious laughter. If Chicago’s green tide is spectacle, Purim is storytelling meeting generosity, with a firm handshake and a plate of cookies. Step inside a synagogue during Purim and the distinction is clear—no dyed rivers here, but plenty of noise when the villain is named in the Book of Esther. Groggers spin; children shriek. The story—the saving of a people through cleverness and courage—thunders from ancient Persia right into modern eardrums.

This isn’t mere kids’ play. The holiday centers on acts of kindness, gifts passed along not only to friends but to folks who might need a lift. Try comparing Purim to Halloween and you’ll likely get a gentle but pointed correction from any rabbi within earshot. There’s less costume bravado, more ritual; less public display, more quiet (if joyful) sharing of food and story.

Speaking of food, Purim’s signature treat, the hamantaschen, delivers its history in three mysterious corners. Is it a hat? An ear? Some sort of mystical pocket that travels through centuries? Answers seem to vary, but the filling—poppyseed, apricot, or raspberry—never disappoints. Humble as they are, these pastries are heavy with meaning, carrying defiance and remembrance in every bite.

Strikingly, Purim shrugs off some sabbath restraints—phones ring, traffic hums, life spills along as usual, just with more costumes and sugar. Joy, here, isn’t a side effect; it’s the point. Maybe that’s the engine that keeps Purim rolling, year after year—the stubborn insistence that, even after grim times, celebration not only survives, it multiplies.

And back on the surface streets—the land of shamrocks, parades, and opportunistic fashion—March’s tidal wave of green takes yet another form. According to beauty insiders, 2026 is shaping up as the year of the green manicure. Dark forest tips for the introverts; emerald cat-eyes for the spotlight-seekers; even swirled matcha patterns for those who plan their outfits with the precision of a NASA launch. Oddly, green doesn’t clash; it flatters, especially when paired with spring’s return of petal-pink shades. If there was ever proof that nothing is immune to holiday spirit—not even your cuticles—this is it.

So, what’s the thread tying all this mayhem together? On the surface, St. Patrick’s and Purim couldn’t be more different—one all boisterous pageantry, the other subtle plot twists and cookies. But squint just a bit, and the resemblance creeps in: each holiday transforms the weary tail end of winter into something vibrant, even unruly. Each invites a little chaos, some creative wardrobe choices, and a break from the script, albeit for different reasons.

Maybe that’s the real secret: these celebrations, whether performed in the shadow of the ‘L’ tracks or beneath stained glass, aren’t only about nationalism or ancient books. Under the glitter and noise, they’re about refusing to give winter—literal or figurative—the final say. In the act of parading, storytelling, or simply baking cookies with a smile, communities assert a quiet defiance. The message echoes, clear in every accent and every accent nail: standing together, we make the darkness blink first.

So, why not mix it up? Toss a “Happy Purim!” to your neighbor, sink your nails into something outlandish, or let out a grogger’s shriek the next time things get dull. March, after all, isn’t built for moderation. It’s a group effort to kick winter off the stage—with a laugh, with a cookie, with a whole river gone electric green. Come to think of it, there’s no better team sport than joy.

March in the city—sun making a half-hearted appearance, winter still dug in like a stubborn old timer who refuses to relinquish the best booth at the back of the bar. And then, as if by collective agreement or seasonal delirium, people start painting life in every shade of green. It doesn’t creep in; it arrives with a bang, confetti, and sometimes, a touch of anarchy.Chicago doesn’t just join the fray; it leads the parade with gusto (and—let’s be honest—a hint of competitive Irish pride that borders on performance art). Forget subtlety. Once a year, the Chicago River throws off its sober, workaday color and explodes with impossible, radioactive green, thanks to union plumbers doubling as alchemists in windbreakers. The transformation isn’t slow or shy. Orange dye hits the water, an odd choice at first, before—presto!—it blooms emerald just in time for cellphone cameras primed and hungry for the Instagram gold rush.This triumph is short-lived, though. Choose Chicago, never one for understatement, describes the hue as sticking around “for a few hours.” Blink, and it fades; snap the photo, then grab a pint, because nothing neon persists. Perhaps there’s a parable tucked away there—joy is meant to be seized, not scheduled for later.Parade day is a spectacle in its own right, less procession and more communal exclamation point. Floating leprechauns? Absolutely. Bagpipers who look like they were born with a kilt on? You bet. Each float competes not for subtlety but for gleeful absurdity, looping Columbus Drive in a dance of tradition and city pride. The organizers have declared the 2025 theme: “Faith, Peace and Unity.” These are, incidentally, the only things louder than a marching band echoing off skyscraper glass.But the city’s love affair with green doesn’t end in downtown’s concrete canyons. South Side hosts its own processional, crowded with generations who treat Irishness like a sacred heirloom. Over in Beverly/Morgan Park, local flavor isn’t just preserved, it’s thrown a block party—reportedly the biggest St. Patrick’s shindig outside of Dublin itself. There’s a North Side answer to this too, each neighborhood reimagining what ‘going green’ means. Spoiler: no two parades ever look quite the same.Yet, for those whose March calendar extends past riverside revelry, another celebration unfolds in quieter corners—Purim, a holiday spun from ancient heroics and kept alive by stubborn memory and contagious laughter. If Chicago’s green tide is spectacle, Purim is storytelling meeting generosity, with a firm handshake and a plate of cookies. Step inside a synagogue during Purim and the distinction is clear—no dyed rivers here, but plenty of noise when the villain is named in the Book of Esther. Groggers spin; children shriek. The story—the saving of a people through cleverness and courage—thunders from ancient Persia right into modern eardrums.This isn’t mere kids’ play. The holiday centers on acts of kindness, gifts passed along not only to friends but to folks who might need a lift. Try comparing Purim to Halloween and you’ll likely get a gentle but pointed correction from any rabbi within earshot. There’s less costume bravado, more ritual; less public display, more quiet (if joyful) sharing of food and story.Speaking of food, Purim’s signature treat, the hamantaschen, delivers its history in three mysterious corners. Is it a hat? An ear? Some sort of mystical pocket that travels through centuries? Answers seem to vary, but the filling—poppyseed, apricot, or raspberry—never disappoints. Humble as they are, these pastries are heavy with meaning, carrying defiance and remembrance in every bite.Strikingly, Purim shrugs off some sabbath restraints—phones ring, traffic hums, life spills along as usual, just with more costumes and sugar. Joy, here, isn’t a side effect; it’s the point. Maybe that’s the engine that keeps Purim rolling, year after year—the stubborn insistence that, even after grim times, celebration not only survives, it multiplies.And back on the surface streets—the land of shamrocks, parades, and opportunistic fashion—March’s tidal wave of green takes yet another form. According to beauty insiders, 2026 is shaping up as the year of the green manicure. Dark forest tips for the introverts; emerald cat-eyes for the spotlight-seekers; even swirled matcha patterns for those who plan their outfits with the precision of a NASA launch. Oddly, green doesn’t clash; it flatters, especially when paired with spring’s return of petal-pink shades. If there was ever proof that nothing is immune to holiday spirit—not even your cuticles—this is it.So, what’s the thread tying all this mayhem together? On the surface, St. Patrick’s and Purim couldn’t be more different—one all boisterous pageantry, the other subtle plot twists and cookies. But squint just a bit, and the resemblance creeps in: each holiday transforms the weary tail end of winter into something vibrant, even unruly. Each invites a little chaos, some creative wardrobe choices, and a break from the script, albeit for different reasons.Maybe that’s the real secret: these celebrations, whether performed in the shadow of the ‘L’ tracks or beneath stained glass, aren’t only about nationalism or ancient books. Under the glitter and noise, they’re about refusing to give winter—literal or figurative—the final say. In the act of parading, storytelling, or simply baking cookies with a smile, communities assert a quiet defiance. The message echoes, clear in every accent and every accent nail: standing together, we make the darkness blink first.So, why not mix it up? Toss a “Happy Purim!” to your neighbor, sink your nails into something outlandish, or let out a grogger’s shriek the next time things get dull. March, after all, isn’t built for moderation. It’s a group effort to kick winter off the stage—with a laugh, with a cookie, with a whole river gone electric green. Come to think of it, there’s no better team sport than joy.