An old revolving fan hummed in the corner, its drone broken only by the soft scritch of the file against my fingernails.
What was I even doing here? I never got my nails done, least of all at dingy little salons in unfamiliar parts of the city.
But after yet another abysmal job interview, the oddly empowering storefront slogan had seemed to beckon me.
“Feel lost, alone, forgotten?” read the swirly red letters painted on the window, “Pamper yourself with a manicure! For only $9.99, discover your true essence.”
The thought of that snooty interviewer sucking her teeth while perusing my resume made me yearn to uncover something, anything, worthwhile about myself. My essence. Whatever that meant.
“Relax, darling, you are crushing my hand.”
I started, but then uncurled my fingers. With dismay, I realized my nails had left crescent-shaped indentations on the manicurist’s knuckles.
“Sorry! Got lost in my thoughts for a moment there.”
“No trouble.” The manicurist rubbed the marks away before continuing her work. “I will push back your cuticles now. You must hold still or I cannot guarantee it will not hurt.”
I held my hands perfectly steady to avoid further embarrassment. The manicurist, a slender middle-aged woman whose piercing eyes stared out of an impeccably contoured face, didn’t seem like someone to disobey. Her fingernails, though elegantly painted, had sharp claw-like edges. I didn’t doubt that a slip of her hand might rip a strip of my skin right off.
“Tell me, darling,” said the manicurist without looking up. “What do I call you?”
“My name? Amber.”
The manicurist froze. Then, her dark eyes tilted slowly up to look at me. Or, more accurately through me. “Amour at Amber Sunset,” the woman murmured. “Wouldn’t that be a lovely name for a polish?”
“Oh, I, uh, guess?” I shifted uncomfortably. The manicurist, still clutching my hand, hadn’t blinked in far too long.
At last, her eyes focused on my actual face. “Who shall you be wearing today?”
“Excuse me?”
“The color, darling. Which color do you desire?”
“I was thinking blue, maybe?”
Tch, tch. The manicurist clicked her tongue. “No, no, darling. It must be red. All my polishes are red.”
“Ok, then—” I offered an awkward smile. “—red it is.”
The room filled with raspy laughter that seemed to emanate from thin air rather than the manicurist’s throat. “Red is a category. My polishes have names. Personalities. Allow me to select one for you.” She rose from the table and shuffled under a set of dusty black curtains into the back room.
As I waited, I traced the crusted polish stains on the counter. A few brownish-red flakes clung to my fingertips. I took a sniff.
Strange. The old polish smelled sweet and slightly coppery—almost like dried blood.
“A deep, luscious red. Full of passion.”
I instinctively cupped my fingers to my chest as the manicurist reappeared.
“Scarlet Struggle she is called.” Lowering back into her chair, the manicurist displayed a small, hand-labeled vial. “Energetic and strong. A fighter. You like?”
Wishing the woman would stop referring to her nail polish with female pronouns—creepy—I nodded and let her pry my hands from my chest.
“What brings you to my salon, Amber darling?” Fat globs of polish smeared across my nails with each stroke of the manicurist’s brush. Yet despite the lumpiness and nauseatingly metallic aroma of the polish, the manicurist’s deft movements resulted in flawlessly coated nails.
“Looking to impress your lover?” She smiled, almost knowingly. “Or celebrating a new job, perhaps?”
“Haven’t got one of those.”
“A lover? Or a job?”
“Both.”
The manicurist smiled sympathetically. “Life can be difficult, can’t it? But surely you have someone to cheer you here in the city. Parents? Siblings? Friends?”
“Not really. It’s just me.”
I bit down on my lower lip to stop the words tumbling out. Why was I telling this creepy manicurist so much person information?
“Poor darling.” The manicurist patted my hand before blowing on the wet polish. “Never you mind. You have a purpose. I’ll bring out your essence.”
“Love your nails,” I said, anxious to shift the conversation away from myself. “What do you call that color? Burnt sienna?”
Disdain clouded the manicurist’s eyes. She released my hands and held up her own.
“Used to be such a delicate shade of red. Blood of the Virgin Mary I called her.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “The color fades so quickly.”
I winced as the manicurist snatched back my hands—”Ouch! Your fingernail nicked me!”—but my chastising gaze found no apology in her dark eyes, which were fixated on my exposed wrists.
Mouth spread in a twisted smile, she ran her tongue slowly over her teeth. “Might be time to apply a fresh coat.”
A droplet of blood bubbled up from the cut on my wrist.
“Amour at Amber Sunset,” the manicurist whispered. “What a lovely shade. Timid. Breathless. Yet full of life.”
A heaviness descended on my chest. I could barely breathe let alone pull away.
Ding-ding. The tingle of the shop bell broke the spell.
“Puh-lease tell me you’ve finished with her. I’ve had the worst day.”
I ripped my hands from the manicurist’s clutches and stood up so violently that my chair clattered to the tile floor.
“Oh good!” The young woman who had entered scooted right past me, righted the overturned chair, and plunked down. “I just moved here, and boy is this city the sort of place that could just, like, swallow someone up whole. Know what I mean?”
The manicurist’s eyes practically sparkled. “What is your name, darling?”
“Rose.”
“Midnight Rose Garden. Wouldn’t that be a lovely name for a polish?”
“Yes,” replied Rose emphatically. “You should totally make that a thing.”
Not lingering to hear any more of the conversation, I slipped quietly outside.
As the door shut behind me, a deceptively sweet voice called, “Come back another time, Amber darling.”
—
Grumpy graduate student by day. Scribbling daydreamer by night. Sleep deprived parent full-time. Currently, Devon Widmer is meandering down a long, winding road toward a PhD in physical chemistry. Her talents include drinking copious amounts of coffee, forgetting where she set her glasses, and laughing at her own jokes.
Goes to show a good story can make anything creepy. Even a manicure. Guess you could say this piece nailed it!