On expression & week 40 of 52
how joy arrives when we release the myths attached to thriving
Hi, friends — Chaos Magic is out!! If you’re in the market for a little escapism, check it out. Also, who woulda guessed this girl below would’ve ever written a book, let alone a few? I don’t love publishing (I prefer the writing itself over telling people about my writing), but I am proud, and I just might paint my nails red and dance today. Speaking of which, on to the real post…
Let go or be dragged —Zen Proverb
I was twenty-something, poor and tired of being poor.
I’d been a practicing nail tech at an upscale retirement home called Trillium for only a few hours. My second customer looked down, so I looked straight ahead. The woman before her had neglected to tip and complained that her French manicure was “just okay,” so I focused.
I faced the woman's veiny shins, almost translucent like the skin on the kielbasa my grandmother would make on holidays. I lifted one of her legs up and out of the warm water, placing her heel delicately on a towel, and began sloughing off the softened dead skin. I was terrified of hurting her or making her angry.
Each tip was a tally mark in my mind, helping me pay for college classes that promised to change how I’d be seen in the world, maybe even how I’d see the world.
Instead of the overdraft fees I incurred then, I imagined a savings account, a promise that one day I wouldn't have to sit at the feet of a rich woman and fear her potential fierceness. In reality, I was quickly accruing debt, and I would work many years beyond any few-dollar tip and a few-month stint as a nail tech to pay that off, let alone save.
Nonetheless, every customer felt like a potential step forward. I was a woman with goals. Passion? Maybe.
I'd always taken pride in my nails, but they were hard to keep nice when your hands were in soapy water all day. When we were young, my sister always had short, grimy nails stained from dirt or paint or whatever else she’d had her hands on. My nails were always long and painted in loud colors like the women on MTV videos.
I would buy dollar-store nails that came with some kind-of rubber cement. They would be bright red, purple, or yellow. Sometimes they'd pop off and fly across the room as I danced in the living room with my friend Nikki or when I tried to pass the potatoes at the dinner table.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As I dried the woman's feet, I was thankful she seemed to be nodding off. Her nails looked as though they'd been splattered with white paint. These tiny marks are disruptions to the keratin protein that makes up our skin and hair. A little trauma, a slight bang, and it takes weeks if not months before these little discolorations are gone.
Almost everyone has a few small marks here and there, and they have no idea when or how they arrived; how much of life is like this?
The frame of soft skin around a healthy nail shows the tenderness and strength of the human body. I didn’t have long nails anymore because they were too much work. I didn't have red nails because I couldn't keep the polish on. But I loved them. They were the original “power pose,” along with loud prints and big jewelry like my mother wore then.
When the woman woke up, she was startled. She asked my name and said hers was Joan.*
Joan's pants had been ironed to perfection when I arrived. She could withhold a tip since I'd wrinkled them. She could say I messed something up or spoke too loudly, as the other woman had, so I remained quiet.
Joan was in a home that cost a year’s worth of my rent every month. She got her nails, hair, and makeup done weekly. I was sure she'd never worn dollar-store nails or worried about overdraft fees. I imagined she'd pick a beige polish and purse her lips if her steak was overdone.
"I don't like this old music," she said, gesturing to the speakers. She went on, saying the décor was designed to remind her of a time when she was young, beautiful, and invisible. "I just want to live now."
I nodded and handed her the tray of polishes.
"You're a quiet one," she said, and I smiled.
As I buffed the big toe on her left foot, sure I'd get a decent tip, I split her skin and the prick of blood surfaced. I pressed cotton to the small fissure, hoping she wouldn't notice. She looked at me, unfazed, and told me she’d lived through worse.
While I don't remember if she tipped, probably not, I do remember the cherry red color she chose and how perfectly it covered every vulnerability. She nodded her approval when I was done, smiling.
I painted my nails the same color that night, just for the night, as I listened to the music I wanted to hear.
I lived alone then. So, alone I danced. I waved my red nails in the air. And I felt alive.
AYTL prompt: Find something you used to enjoy. Rekindle your love affair with it. And if you can’t find anything, turn on a song you love and dance.
Writing prompt: For me, this scene in my life was about letting go of the “American Dream” and finding joy within. Write about a time you (or a character) let go of a dream that wasn’t yours to begin with.
*It wasn’t Joan
I love you Jen Knox. Thank you!!!!
I savored every word of this!