Words: Cliodhna Shields (she/her)
I pushed open the door at the back of the room. The familiar pear-like smell of nail polish flooded the air. Rows of tables and chairs, each with pairs of women varying in age, shape, and style lined the room. Some ancient pop song played from the old stereo in the corner that our manager refused to replace. At my station sat a familiar, pleasant older woman with an unwavering loyalty to her standard, pale pink, oval shaped nails, which she got redone every second Saturday. I could feel my phone buzzing with a notification, but I chose to ignore it.
‘Hello, dear!’ Her usual sing-song tone always brightened my day.
‘Just the usual then?’
She loved to ask questions, but she enjoyed answering them even more. She could talk for the entire appointment and I’d only have to fill in a few words of support here and there to keep the conversation going. Of course, I was listening. Not only because it was my job, but because I liked her. She was interesting. Her life was so different from mine. She had a husband and children who adored her and while we had very little in common, sometimes she told me stories of her twenties. She was already married and a mother when she was younger than me now. I tried not to think about it too much, for fear I would start comparing the timelines.
It wasn’t long after my first client left, satisfied with a job well done, that my second appointment arrived. My phone was buzzing every 15 minutes now with calls. I turned the ringer off.
This girl was only 16. Her mum had been made to drive her around for appointments all day. The two were arguing from the beginning over which colours would match her prom dress best. The girl wanted the emerald green; her mother wanted the white. They chose the emerald.
‘Hi ladies. You must be so excited for tonight!’
With girls this age, it is rare you get any conversation out of them. She was no exception.
I managed to make out, through the teenage angst, that prom started at 6pm and she had a date taking her. Her mum had eagerly shown me a photo of him as the poor girl just sat there, looking like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole. I could see the line on the back of her neck where the spray tan met with her hairline. I remembered the anticipation I felt before my own prom. The inspiration pictures on Pinterest that I could never quite replicate myself, the awkward shuffle you do your first time in heels. She would understand in a few years that the best part of the night was the day spent getting ready for it, but who was I to spoil this inevitable realisation?
When she was finished and her mother had paid the sizable bill at the counter, I took a break. I considered checking my phone. Maybe I could exist in this perfect, pear-smelling world for just a little while longer.
The final client of my shift, a stoic businesswoman, entered late. She was always late, but she tipped well so I didn’t complain. Her appointments usually consisted of every sordid detail of her love, friend, family, and work life.
I’d met her once outside of the salon on the street. She didn’t look twice at me and never said hello. This job entails a level of invisibility. Like a therapist to a client, or a patient to a doctor, there is a level of unspoken confidentiality that we uphold like a vow. Everyone has something they want to escape from out there. For some, this hour is the only escape from their worlds. Their only break from the constant carousel of life. No matter the issue, no matter the nails, we sit in these two chairs and we talk, or we don’t talk, and we are stuck in this limbo for an hour of our day. And when they leave, as this lady shortly would, we wipe down the station, put their colour away on the shelf, and we do it all again.
As I walked home, the cold air on the street blew away all traces of pear. I found my phone in my pocket and checked my unopened messages.
I loved it! Beautiful writing