thoughts while getting my nails done

My nail tech

Her hands were rough; nails cracked and shaved down to small, rounded nubs that belonged to her knobby fingers. Small rivers existed beneath her thin skin, infusing a certain meekness to her that didn’t exist. Her grip was strong but soft enough that it didn’t crush my bones. Meticulousness lived inside each motor skill she performed as the wand of the polish swayed back and forth to pain my nails. She had a thin face, cheeks that sagged, and glasses drooping down her nose. The brown of her eyes wandered from my hands every now and then to listen to the conversation occurring a couple inches beside the both of us. She hated to be still. My tech was a kind woman, and you would not have had to ask. She was attentive to the concerns of those around her, breaking from her task to fly about the salon and aid her coworkers in their own work.

She was the kind of woman who fiercely scrubbed dirt stains from her pots and succeeded. Hand soaked the clothes of her grandchildren in gentle soaps and air dryed each garment to ensure no fabric would become too altered. Her smile was kind and genuine; a mystery behind her focused gaze. Had I garnered the courage to ask, I wonder if I might have unlocked each secret and wonder crossing my mind. As the woman painted my nails, I knew that I was just a character in her vast universe. Some background to a life that belonged to her and only her, and when I left, she thought not much and continued on her day with those cryptic calloused hands.