Of the two hairdressers I could see, one was clipping a gentleman’s hair and the other worked on a woman customer, painting strands of hair laid out on a band of aluminum foil. A third customer came in and another stylist appeared from somewhere in the back. I watched the woman take her seat while the stylist assembled her tools. She flapped out a cape that she placed backward over the woman’s clothing to avoid showering her with clippings. The gentleman got up, left a tip, and stopped at the front desk long enough to pay for his cut. Anna moved the client from her work station to an empty one close by. The woman sat down and placed her newly painted nails in the maw of a tiny cave where a violet light bathed her fingertips, apparently to speed the drying process. I glanced at my watch and saw that ten minutes had passed. I was itchy to be on my way, but resigned to completing the task I’d set for myself.

17

Anna crossed to the desk and checked the appointment book, then gestured that I was next up. I set the binder aside and took a seat at her rolling table. I’m ignorant about the dictates of beauty salon etiquette. I murmured a greeting without introducing myself. Anna neither offered her name nor asked for mine. The tabletop immediately in front of me was padded with fresh white towels. I extended my hands, palm down, while she leaned and peered at my fingernails.

“Where do you get your nails done?”

“I’ve never had a manicure.”

I expected a comment but her expression was neutral. Nail technician’s creed: A nail professional makes no judgments. Nor does a nail professional criticize those who’ve come to her for help. If my nails had been in order, why would I need her?

“Nails would be nice if you took better care of them. I’ll give you some sample products before you leave,” she said. “You want straight across or shaped?”

“What do you think?”

“Shaped. Slender fingers, it looks better.”

I peered more closely at my fingertips, trying to see them as she did. Okay, a bit ragged here and there, but my nails were clean and I didn’t bite them, which surely counted in my favor.

To her right, there was a miniature Lucite rack where bottles of nail polish were perched in the equivalent of stadium seating. Every known color was represented, from dark funereal hues to fire-engine reds. The pinks ran from a neutral beige to a fuchsia shade I didn’t like at all. “You know what color you want?” she asked.

“I don’t wear polish.”

“I’ll buff them. I’m short on time anyway. This is my busy day. You’re lucky Lucy managed to slot you in.”