THE NAIL TECHNICIAN by Carol Pierce

“Pick your color,” a nail technician said to the forty-something-year-old customer who had just walked into the Happy Nail Salon in New York City. “Then sit there.” She gestured to an empty chair at a long, white table where four other technicians were sitting, heads lowered, eyes focused on the customers’ hands before them.

Jessica, the customer, had shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair and was wearing a floral skirt and moss green blouse. She looked around at the clean, bright, and spacious shop with price lists on the walls and posters of perfectly manicured hands and beautifully colored nails, scanned the bottles of polish on the shelves, selected fresh watermelon, and sat down at the long table. A technician whose nametag identified her as Amy took a seat opposite her.

Amy looked to be in her early sixties, had short salt-and-pepper hair, wore tiny black stud earrings and a small gold cross around her neck. She took the bottle of polish from Jessica and placed it in the basket beside her. “Pretty color,” she said, smiling warmly.

As she cut and shaped Jessica’s nails, Amy was quiet and chewed on her bottom lip. Jessica could see a stocky man with curly grey hair, wearing a cornflower blue dress shirt and grey slacks, sitting at the back of the salon watching the workers. After a few minutes, Amy got up to get a bowl, filled it with warm water, her hands shaking, and head lowered as she walked slowly back to the table, water spilling on the floor. Jessica saw the man in the back shake his head. The woman at the door yelled “Clean it up!” and seconds later, Amy had dried the floor and returned to Jessica.

“Sorry,” she said, sitting down again and lowering her head. She flexed her hands in front of herself and stared at them not knowing when they might do something unexpected and

alarming. “My hands,” she said. “Sometimes they shake. Sometimes really bad.”

Amy pushed herself closer to the table and picked up a cuticle trimmer. As she removed

the cuticles from the base of the nails on Jessica’s right hand, her own hands suddenly began to shake, and the instrument sliced the skin below the nail bed on Jessica’s middle finger.

Jessica quickly pulled her hand away and let out a loud “ow.”

The man started to get up, but when he saw the technician near the door running towards them, he sat back down. The technician nudged Amy to leave, took her seat, and examined Jessica’s finger. Jessica saw her name was Mary. While Mary cleaned the cut and applied a liquid to stop the bleeding, Amy stood behind Jessica and looked on.

“Go away,” Mary said, harshly. “Fold the towels in the dryer. I’ll finish.”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said, returning her attention to Jessica. “Amy has issues.”

Jessica turned away to watch Amy who dutifully folded the towels. Poor woman, she thought. She immediately recalled the time in high school gym class when a classmate ridiculed her for the way she dribbled a basketball, and the other girls started to laugh. Jessica remembered the shame she felt and how she desperately wanted to flee from the gym. Amy’s probably feeling humiliated and embarrassed, not to mention frightened by her shakes.

Just as Mary was about to continue where Amy had left off, Jessica pulled her hand away. “I’d like Amy to finish.”

Mary put down the trimmer and looked at Jessica, her head cocked slightly to the side. “I’ll give you a good manicure,” she said, sitting upright and extending her hands in front of Jessica for her to examine. “Look, very steady.”

“Thank you, but I want Amy.”

Amy was still folding towels in the back. When Mary called, she walked quickly to the

front, eyes downcast to avoid stares from her co-workers and clients.

“This lady wants you to finish,” Mary said, abruptly turning away from Jessica, clearly

miffed.

Amy sat down, lowered her head, and immediately began chewing on her bottom lip. Seconds later, in a barely audible voice, she said, “Thank you, lady.”

“Don’t worry,” Jessica said, bending forward and speaking softly so the others couldn’t hear. “Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.”

Amy applied a base coat and a coat of fresh watermelon, then put down the polish and sighed, relieved that she had had no further issues with her hands.

“You’re doing fine,” Jessica said, offering a friendly smile.

“You make me feel relaxed,” Amy said, applying the second coat. “I used to do a lot of pretty nail art, but these days with my hands, it’s not easy.”

Jessica looked up quickly, surprised at the mention of nail art. “Could you try to do

something for me?”

“I’ll try,” she said and began to paint a design.

After a few minutes, her hands started to shake.

Jessica glanced at the man and saw he was watching Amy.

“You want to take a break?” Jessica asked.

Amy raised her head and searched Jessica’s eyes trying to comprehend why she was

being so understanding. “A few minutes.”

 

“Finished,” Amy said, after ninety minutes had passed. “What do you think?”

Jessica looked admiringly at her nails.

Amy had painted a tiny white poodle with a pink bow in her hair and a diamond studded collar on the pointer finger of her right hand and a tiny red ball on her ring finger. On Jessica’s left pointer finger, she had made a grey poodle, slightly larger than the white one, and on her ring finger, a miniature bone.

“Wow! I love them!” Jessica exclaimed. “So whimsical.”

 

When Jessica went back to the salon two weeks later, two other customers were waiting to see Amy. Four manicurists sat at the long white table, eyes on their cell phones, thumbs texting. Amy sat there, too, massaging her hands.

“How are you?” Jessica asked, sitting down opposite Amy and handing her a bottle of sparkly red polish.

“Okay,” Amy said, examining Jessica’s nails.

Jessica smiled. “I received lots of compliments on your nail art. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how are your hands?”

“The same. My co-workers don’t think I should work here, but I need the money. What do you want today?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

“I’m going to a celebration for a friend. Her sixtieth birthday. Could you do a design?”

“Remember, I work slowly.”

“It’s not a problem. Take your time.”

When Amy was done, she shook out her hands. “Okay?” she asked.

Jessica marveled at the pictures of white and pink balloons and presents tied with colorful bows. “Beautiful!” she said.

The chairs were filled with women waiting to see Amy, two weeks later when Jessica returned to the Happy Nail Salon for her appointment.

“So many customers,” Jessica said. “You must be thrilled.”

“People like my work,” Amy said, looking away humbly to avoid Jessica’s eyes. “Customers don’t mind waiting, and the tips are excellent.”

Jessica looked around. She could see the owner was again watching Amy from the back of the store. Why does he continue to observe her? Only two additional technicians were working on customers. Another was sitting at a desk at the front of the salon, answering the phone, and restocking the shelves. The other two were tidying up their workstations.

“I’d like to offer a suggestion,” Jessica said, after she was seated. “Maybe you could ask the other nail professionals to do the manicures and paint the customers’ nails. You could focus on the designs. If you give your co-workers a share of your tips, I’m sure they’d be grateful, and I imagine the owner would be pleased that the shop was making more money.”

Amy shook her head. “I wish I could do that, but the customers want me to do everything.”

 

A month passed before Jessica went back to the salon.

“Amy’s not here today,” the owner said as soon as Jessica entered.

“When will she be in?”

“Yesterday was her last day.”

“Oh no,” Jessica said, then gestured to the manicurists at the table. “Which of these ladies

can do designs?”

“Only Amy did nail art.”

“She did good work,” Jessica said. “I referred many friends here, but they won’t come if Amy’s not here.” She turned around and walked out the door.

One day, a week later, in the middle of the afternoon, Amy went to see the owner. She entered the salon and walked purposefully to the back where he had his office.

When he saw Amy, he smiled and closed the ledger on his desk. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to ask for my job back, Mr. Stevenson,” she said, sitting down opposite him.

“I’m so sorry, Amy, but I can’t do that.”

“It’s not right what you did,” Amy said, her voice rising. “Twenty years I’ve worked here. I started this business in the beginning when you were busy with your restaurant. I came in at seven in the morning and stayed until eleven p.m. I did everything. I wanted this salon to succeed. How could you do this to me?”

“I didn’t want to let you go,” he said, looking at Amy who was fidgeting with a tissue in her lap. “I know how much you did, and I never could have managed the two businesses alone. My decision was not easy.”

“I have no one to help me. I’m sixty-three, and I’ve got shaky hands. What other salon is going to hire me?”

“I wish I could keep you, but I can’t have a nail technician with unsteady hands working here. I just can’t. Have you thought any more about the stocking position we discussed?”

“I’m a nail artist,” Amy said, sitting up tall in her seat. “If I wanted to stack shelves, I’d work in a supermarket.”

She rose, continuing to look at Mr. Stevenson. “Customers asked for me,” she said, calmly, her gaze steady. They liked my designs.”

“I know. You did excellent work, but the instruments are sharp. You could hurt someone

badly if your hands slip. Remember when you cut a customer’s finger a few weeks ago? Thank God it wasn’t worse!”

“I’ll be more careful and work slowly. Please, sir. I need this job.”

“You work slowly now, and frankly, you don’t make much money for my salon compared to the others.”

Amy looked away to avoid her embarrassment.

“I want to help you, Amy. I’ll give you some cash, but I can’t take you back. This business is my livelihood. I can’t risk it.”

“I’ve always worked for my money. I’m not going to take a handout now.”

“There’s nothing else I can do for you,” he said, sadly. “I’m terribly sorry. Please rethink my offer.”

Amy pushed herself away from the table and stood up. “Thanks for your time,

Mr. Stevenson.”

 

That night, Amy couldn’t sleep. She went into the living room, took her bank book from her desk, and sat on the couch. If I skimp, maybe I can manage for six months. She made a list of her monthly expenses, then threw it to the floor in frustration What am I going to do? I can’t afford not to work. At that moment, her hands began to shake. Damn these hands! Damn Mr. Stevenson. He never should have done this to me.

A few days later, Amy returned to the salon at eight o’clock a.m., an hour before it opened. She knocked on the door and Mr. Stevenson opened it. Standing in the doorway, black-framed glasses perched on top of his head, he said, “Hello, Amy. What can I do for you?”

“I have an idea, sir. I’d like to discuss it with you.”

Mr. Stevenson motioned for Amy to come in, then turned around and walked to his office, Amy following. He poured tea for her and for himself and sat down at a table. Amy sat next to him.

“Tell me your idea,” he said, stirring his tea.

Amy sat up straight, placed her arms firmly on the table, and folded her hands as if she were a young student sitting at her desk, trying to impress the teacher with her attentiveness.

“I’ll train the technicians to do nail art.”

“Are you serious?” Mr. Stevenson asked, his eyes wide open. “This is not a trade school! I don’t have time to close down my shop so you can teach!”

“Two weeks, Mr. Stevenson. Just shut the shop for two hours at the end of each day for two weeks. I’ll teach the manicurists how to make pretty designs.”

“What if they don’t want to learn? I can’t force them.”

“Talk to them. Tell them times are changing. Nail art is becoming popular. If they

want to continue to work here, they’ll need to learn.”

“I don’t know, Amy. My business is fine just the way it is.”

“Please, Mr. Stevenson. Let me try.”

He looked at Amy with compassion in his eyes. “I want to help you, but I must think about this. Come back next week and I’ll have an answer.”

The following Monday, Amy looked through the salon’s glass door and saw Mr. Stevenson sitting in the back, reading a newspaper. She knocked, and he opened the door.

“How have you been?” he asked, happy to see her.

“Nervous. Waiting hasn’t been easy,” she said.

Mr. Stevenson laughed softly. “Let’s go to the back and talk.”

“How are your hands?” he asked, after they sat down.

“Better. My doctor gave me a new medicine. They still shake a little, but the medicine doesn’t make me sleepy.”

“That’s great. I’ve given your idea a lot of consideration. I’m willing to try it, and when the training is done, we’ll see what the demand is like. I’ll give it two weeks. I’d like you to be here after the training to support and assist the others. I’ll pay you, of course.”

Amy sighed. “Sounds good. Thank you, Mr. Stevenson.”

“Listen. If it doesn’t work out—”

“It will. You’ll see.”

“The technicians are excited. Purchase whatever you need,” he said, reaching for his wallet and pulling out his business credit card.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, while Amy put the card in her purse. “What if your hands shake, and you can’t demonstrate?”

“Don’t worry,” she said, understanding his concern. “If that happens, I’ll instruct, and one of the manicurists will model for me.”

“Sounds good. I think we’ve covered everything,” Mr. Stevenson said, getting up and walking Amy to the door. “We’ll start next Monday. Be here at six p.m. so you have time to get ready.”

“Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this.”

During the remainder of the week, Amy set up her nail tip holders and tips and practiced

making designs at home. The new medicine is working. Most of the time, my hands are steady. Every morning and evening, she prayed that nothing would go wrong during the training.

At five thirty the following Monday night, Amy entered the salon. Three nail professionals were sitting at the long table working on customers; the others sat idly, staring at their phones.

Amy walked to the back, set up the chairs and tables and laid out the materials.

At seven p.m., after the last customer had left, Mr. Stevenson turned the sign on the door to “closed” and instructed the nail professionals to move to the back.

Amy showed everyone pictures of nail art created with different tools, distributed stands, nail tip holders, and press on tips and demonstrated how to assemble the items.

“You need to practice everything I show you,” she said to the technicians who eagerly waited to see what was next.

“What if a customer asks for something and I don’t know how to draw it,” Mary asked, even before Amy got started.

“There’s lots of options. I’ll show you various tools suitable for creating desirable nail art.”

During the following two weeks, Amy reviewed the tools and explained the differences in brush types. She demonstrated how to make plaids, stripes, and animal prints and showed the

technicians how to make dots in assorted sizes. She illustrated how to use rhinestones for

decorative embellishment and glitter and powder to add sparkle.

“Use your imaginations. See what innovative designs you come up with,” she said,

gesturing enthusiastically.

During the last two evenings, Amy paired up the nail technicians and they role-played being customers and nail professionals. One customer requested a zoo animal, and her partner lined up five acrylic nail tips, painted them with white polish, and made thin black lines from one side to the other on each nail but the middle finger; on that one, she affixed a small zebra head decal.

“Beautiful,” Amy said, when the nail artist was done. “Simple, but elegant, and the little head adds a nice touch.” She looked around to see what the others had created. Some made

flowers and insects, and others used stamping kits to transfer images of cartoon characters onto

nails. “You’ve all done excellent work.”

In the upcoming days, Mr. Stevenson designed posters announcing the salon now offered nail art that he displayed in the salon’s window. Customers, eager to try something innovative and stylish, booked appointments, and all the nail artists were busy every day.

At the end of the two weeks, Mr. Stevenson brought Amy into his office and motioned for her to sit.

“I’m delighted with what you’ve done,” he said, beaming. “Not only has my business grown, but my workers are happy. You should feel enormously proud.”

“I’m happy I was able to help,” she said.

His eyes went quickly to her hands, and he was quiet for a moment. Then, “I’ve noticed your hands are steadier. I’d like you to come back to work if you want.”

“Yes, I would. Thank you, Mr. Stevenson.”

A month later, on her day off, Amy returned to the salon to see Mr. Stevenson. “I want to talk to you,” she said, and began walking to the back.

“What is it?” Mr. Stevenson asked, after they were seated.

Amy was quiet. Then, “I love this place, and I love my work.” She looked around. “I still remember when this salon was just an empty space. This isn’t easy for me to say.” She laughed nervously, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “I need to leave, sir.”

“Leave? Why? You’ve done so much for all of us, and you’re doing well. Half of my clients are your customers.”

“I’m happy for the nail artists and for you. I know I’m slower than the others, and it’s possible my hands may get worse,” she said, looking away. “No one wants more accidents.”

“Certainly not, but we don’t know what will happen in the future. Why not continue working until you no longer can?”

Amy shook her head. “It’s time.” She put her hand to her chest. “I feel it. I must leave now.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, standing up and walking towards the door.

“Amy, wait,” Mr. Stevenson called. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

While strolling through Chelsea on a Saturday afternoon a month later, Jessica noticed a new hair salon had opened on Eighth Avenue. A sandwich board on the sidewalk in front of the

business said, “Of course we cut hair, but our focus is wild color.” Hmm, Jessica thought and went inside to check it out.

She walked down the steps into the large room with bright turquoise walls and large head shots of various hairstyles featuring different combinations of lavish and outlandish colors.

“Pick your colors,” said a woman at a desk.

“Thanks, Just looking.”

Paints in plastic, flip-top bottles and in a multitude of unusual colors like wildfire candy cotton pink and peacock blue green, lined the rows of shelves along one wall. Both men and women occupied the six styling chairs, and Jessica watched in amazement as the stylists, each sporting her own colorful hairstyle, dipped brushes into bowls of paint and applied generous amounts of color to their clients’ heads, moving around them to ensure that the colors were distributed evenly.

“Jessica, so good to see you!” a colorist called.

Jessica turned towards the voice and saw a woman with spiked red-orange and magenta hair, the tips shiny gold and silver, working on a twenty-something year-old girl. Not recognizing the woman, Jessica asked, “Do I know you?”

The colorist put down her brush with dayglow geranium-fire-truck red paint and faced Jessica, her eyes widening and head tilted slightly.

“I’m Amy,” she said.

“Of course. Amy from the nail salon. You look so different.”

“I’ve only been here two weeks, but I love it!” she said, dipping a new brush into a

glossy, marshmallow white and applying the color to the center part of her client’s head and

adding streaks of white to her red and blueberry pigtails.

Jessica could see the girl looking at her in the mirror. “Excuse me. I was wondering, how did you choose those colors?” Jessica asked.

“I was born in Texas; raised in California; educated in Massachusetts, and now I’m living in New York,” she said. “I want my hair to show my patriotism.”

“You certainly are a living embodiment of Americana,” Jessica said, offering a big smile.

“How do you like it, Scarlet?” Amy asked the girl.

“I love it! It’s just what I wanted,” she said, getting up and walking to the cashier.

Amy turned to Jessica. “I have a few minutes before my next customer.” She sat down in an empty chair and motioned for Jessica to do the same.

“The owner created all these unique colors,” Amy said. “They’re not harmful, don’t fade in the sun, and maintain their vibrancy for a month, even after many washings.”

“You seem really happy,” Jessica said, enthusiastically.

“This is a fun place. I can be creative, and coloring puts no strain on my hands,” Amy said. “I’d be happy to do your hair, anytime.”

“This isn’t for me, but I do still like to get my nails done.”

Amy looked down at Jessica’s lavender nails with daisies that complemented her purple outfit. “You still go to the Happy Nail Salon?”

“I do.”

“Say hello to Mr. Stevenson and to the ladies for me,” Amy said, pouring bowls of dayglow orange, gold coins, and yellow mustard, and getting ready for her next customer.