Polished

“Relax your hand.”

My nail tech shakes my fingers like she wants to rip them loose.

The more I try to relax, the more rigid they get. I feel my panic growing like I'm stuck in a cycle of manual breathing. I've forgotten the basics of staying alive, and I'll be forced to concentrate on my inhales and stiff knuckles forever.

She slaps the back of my hand, and I exhale. My wrist goes limp in submission and my brain gushes with the release. My fingers are nothing more than dead things in her grip.

She stares at them with the same sentiment. 

I am not a picky customer, but I'm not an easy one either. When I first entered the nail salon, she asked me what kind of gel I wanted. I didn't know. I had booked my appointment ahead of time, specifically to avoid moments like this. What I wanted most was to slink in and leave with the least amount of interaction possible.

Embarrassed, I fumbled through what I knew. I liked the kind of gel that finishes puffy and hard like tiny, almond-shaped suitcases. She grabbed my hands and inspected each nail, noting a couple that had peeled off. 

"No extensions?" she asked.
"No extensions," I said.

She scoffed. 

Now I watch her sculpt my nails with goop, occasionally glancing up when she encounters a shorter one. She taps them, either willing them to grow or wishing I had let her even them all out. I am a lop-sided burden at her station. 

“Relax your hand.”

Right. My palms sweat into hers as I try to make them heavy, desperate not to be scolded again.

I focus on her chest. Her black shirt is tainted white from filing. Tiny nail flakes splatter across the fabric, and I can’t tell if I’m grossed out more by my fragments being part of the collection or her indifference to the dust in general.

Her eyes meet mine and I realize I’ve been staring. I avert my gaze to the clock. How has it only been twenty minutes?

Everyone around me seems so comfortable, quietly extending hands and feet to strangers with grace. The woman two seats over is intently watching her manicurist glaze her thumb with a barely-there beige. Her engagement ring is blinding, and I feel dumb for thinking I had to remove my jewelry before coming. 

I look around and notice I'm in a gallery of mature nudes and tasteful taupes. Suddenly, my “strawberry margarita” shade seems juvenile. Tiny cats stare back at me from the brush handle of my bottle, and I’m accosted by my own childish taste. Only tacky things come in such silly bottles. Only unsophisticated women leave their rings at home. 

Throughout the salon, other patrons scan my station. I’m an outsider in their ritual house, and I’ve been outed. I am not the kind of woman who knows...

“Relax your hand.”

My nail tech interrupts yet another spiral, and I breathe, willing the tension to release from my hands and my head. 

People come here to relax, I think. This is relaxing.

I let my fingers flop as she forces a knuckle in the wrong direction. I’m convinced it’s going to snap. She chuckles, and I wonder if it’s my brittle grip or misplaced panic that she finds amusing.

I zone out, letting myself find distraction in the discomfort. A few knuckle cracks are enough to keep me occupied. 

When the manicure is done, she wordlessly drops my hand onto the counter. I let it fall, impressed with how slack it’s become. I admire my glittery colour and wonder if she secretly loved painting something different.  

When I look up, she’s moved on to the next customer. New filings are already piling onto her shirt. 

I unceremoniously collect my things, pay $67 plus tip, and go. The hour I spent here is immediately erased. No names were exchanged, and no stories were shared. It's as though I'm just coming to pick up my hands from a day at the groomers. 

Outside I check my phone and am pulled back into a world of to-lists and expectations: a friend asks me what I’m up to, a bill pops into my inbox, a story I wrote has been rejected, my groceries are delayed… My new nails dig into my palms.

Relax your hand, I think.