There are limited places that are truly integrated, especially in Small Town, Texas. We self-segregate (for a multitude of reasons) our churches, grocery stores, hair salons, entertainment venues, social groups, and even our funeral homes, but not the nail salon. It is the proverbial women’s melting pot, the best of America, staffed by limited English speaking Vietnamese immigrants who ask, “You wan deesign, you wan manicuur? You like, make you pretty.”
I’m not much of a talker. I close my eyes during pedicures and enjoy the robotic massaging chair as the rolling metal balls move up and down my spine making my body involuntarily shake and dance in unflattering ways. Periodically, though, I am drawn into conversation.
During one pedi visit, a woman seated to my right was asked an indiscernible question by the nail tech. The customer did not understand. As the two women tried to detangle the message, repeating louder and slower the misarticulated words, I couldn’t resist opening my eyes to assess the situation: an elderly Black woman with hearing aids and a young Vietnamese woman seated at her feet. To my left was a Hispanic woman conducting business on her cell phone while squeezing in a quick pedi over lunch – a great diet tool she later told me. “Keep yourself busy, pick up the laundry, non-perishable groceries, etc., and you won’t have time to think about eating”. Was this hint for my personal benefit? She must have seen my rolls of fat shaking in the massage chair. Next to her was a Middle Eastern woman dressed in a beautiful ornate salwar kameez. At a station in front of me getting her nails filled was a young White woman with enough metal piercings in her face that I doubt she could ever make it through airport security. Her tattoos ran into each other like a body-sized mural. I had noticed her earlier as she discussed the evening’s menu with her wife while intermittently singing Barney songs with her young son (note to self: not all moms look alike).
So, this is the cast of characters that tried to assist the elderly woman and the young nail technician communicate. Pierced Mom was the first to jump in. I believe the elderly woman was either ‘taken aback’ by her appearance, or the metal in Pierced Mom’s face interfered with hearing aid reception. Either way, communication was a failure despite an ambitious game of charades that played out for our amusement. The salon became alive with laughter. The Middle Eastern woman appeared shy, but longing to help, she spoke softly with no success. Obviously accustomed to ‘handling a situation’, the businesswoman took charge and when her persistence and insistence did not improve understanding she began speaking Spanish to both. I sat there watching my rolls of fat shake, not from the massaging chair but from uncontrolled laughter.
In this moment, this one grand moment, we were a community. We had a united purpose. We were connected. We were more beautiful than we had ever been.
“Welcom. Com en. You wan pedicuur? Eyebrow? Deesign? You like, make you pretty.” And We Were!
You got it – it’s all about community.