I am a waitress and I really have no business spending upwards of $50 every few weeks on my nails. And yet, while my laundry has not been put away in over a month and my shelf on the fridge is looking increasingly barren, I always find the time and spare change to visit the nail salon.
It’s an experience that both invigorates and frustrates me. I can never quite shake the feeling of guilt that comes along with getting a manicure. There is often a language barrier between me and the manicurist, but so much is said within our silence. Theirs is a silence steeped in the bored focus of one's job; mine is a silence tainted with the guilt of someone paying money to be pampered.
Sitting across from her, I wonder how many hands she has held with her own.
I often wonder what people remember about me. Passersby, peers, coworkers, what is it that registers in their mind in association with me? Is it how my hair is never really neat? Is it my perfume that I always wear a little too much of just because I like when people tell me that I smell good? Is it my belly-button piercing, my tattoos, or my eyes? Or is it a flash of color as I gesture with my hands while I talk, as they notice my bright acrylic nails?
I wonder because when I meet people, my eyes automatically go to their hands. Before I was gifted with the identity of being a UVA student, I wrote one of my application essays about getting my nails done. The essay reads:
Instead of trying to figure out people's eyes, I look at their hands. As customers hand me money in exchange for ice cream cones, I look at their hands. I look at people’s hands and I think about the music they create, the stories they write, the things they build, and the people they hold. I look at weary, calloused palms and I spin stories of a life of hard work and deep devotion, all before I look into the stranger’s eyes.
I am twenty now, and I have traded ice cream cones for margarita glasses, but I still get my nails done every two weeks—paying tribute to my now-worn opinion on the importance of hands.
As she shapes my nails, we talk about the state of modern poetry, of literature as a magnum for capitalist venture, and of the struggles of being a writer.
Sitting across from her, I wonder how many hands she has held with her own. She is holding my hand with her slim ones, and I notice that her hands are soft and much smaller than mine. I am intensely aware of the confidence that runs from her palms through her finger tips—her fingers move over mine instinctively, perhaps the result of years of repetition. Her hands have held the hands of so many strangers. I see no ring adorning her left hand, but when she taps her phone screen to check the time, I get a glimpse of a small child that I assume is her daughter. She cradles my ring finger as she stencils a turquoise heart on my almond-shaped nail. Hers are hands that have held a child. Mine are hands that have the privilege of passing money over a counter in return for a few weeks of beauty. The silence between us is not heavy, it is transactional.
A different salon. Sitting across from her, she asks what I am studying. “English literature”, I reply, and I watch her face shift into a smile. She majored in English too, and she has four self-published books of poetry and prose. As she shapes my nails, we talk about the state of modern poetry, of literature as a magnum for capitalist venture, and of the struggles of being a writer. She tells me that writing is a practice that simply requires practice. She speaks words of friendship as she clips and files, and the hour slips by just as easily as the polish glides onto my nails.
And so I go, every two weeks. I could pretend I don’t know why—but I do know. I like to share with a person, either in silence or in a literary conversation, and I like when the sharing is formed by holding hands. I like when people catch a flash of color as I gesture with my hands while I talk. I like holding a book and noticing that the words on the page are beautified by the bright pink fingernails that trace them. I like seeing a glimpse of royal blue when I run my fingers through the hair of a partner. I like the specific sound of acrylic nails on a keyboard, reminding me that the person behind the words is just that, a person. One person with silly, controversial, joyful habits—like going to the nail salon.
