the manicurist
It’d been 338 days since I left my parent’s nest and about 280 since I stormed out of my favorite nail salon in a heated spat. I have a love/hate relationship with salons - hair, nail, brows, you name it! Old school Dominican moms may assume as much when they see my hair. They’re time-consuming and, sometimes, soul-sucking. Accompanied by a range of conversations from tummy tuck dreams to the latest novela debrief. I much prefer awkward silence over the pleasantries.
From my parent’s place the salon was an easy 5 minute stroll, close enough to make a 9am appointment and still have the rest of the day to myself. From my place at the time of this entry, however, it was a 20 minute bus ride — a trip I was more than willing to make for the service before the unfortunate fallout.
Fast forward a few months, here I was, exploring foreign places on Nagle avenue in hopes of a fresh start and a new spot closer to home. I have to admit, the search felt more like speed dating. From one salon to the next, I scouted establishments promptly assessing decor, personalities, and ambiance in a minute or less. Most were unimpressive and raggedy but I pushed myself to remain open. Desperate to get my nails done I asked a friend for a recommendation. Having herself been a loyal customer at my old go-to spot, she referred me to her new place. Lucky for me, it was steps from my apartment.
“He cheats once, you cheat twice.”
Freshly showered and shampooed, my hair sat like a wet mop. Feeling less than thoughtful about my look I threw on a pair of ripped jeans, a nerdy fleece and a pair of old Nike’s and headed out. The salon was perfectly nestled between a Kennedy Fried Chicken and a cashier place. Its proximity to home made it a winner though for some the chicken spot would’ve sufficed. From the moment I walked in the air was tense. Surrounded by head strong, outspoken women I realized I was in a room of extroverts - a winning gathering for introverted ol’ me. Despite the number of women lined up for a fix, I was called next. In retrospect, that should’ve indicated trouble but in my desperation I thought nothing of it. The odds were surely stacked against me. Either the technician taking me was the worst out of the bunch or, at the very least, I was missing out on better options.
To my surprise, the person I was assigned to was quite talented. A multitasker who could rap and perform reggaeton favorites while clipping cuticles. A therapist, armed with marital counsel specifically niched in infidelity and retaliation. “He cheats once, you cheat twice”, she said. A master instagrammer, posting pictures of her latest blooms courtesy of one of her many admirers, and all while tending to me. If this wasn’t the deal of a lifetime for the price of one manicure, I don’t know what was.
She curiously stared at my wedding ring as she prepped my nails. Unable to contain herself she proceeded to free her thoughts:
Manicurist: Eso es oro? (Is that gold?)
Me: Si (Yes)
Manicurist: O, estas casada? (Oh, and you’re married?)
Me: Si (Yes)
Manicurist: Y cuantos años tienes? (How old are you?)
Me: 28
Manicurist: O, solo pregunto porque te veo sentada ahí con tu pelo así, tan callaíta. (I only ask because I see you sitting there so quietly with your hair like that.)
Some of you, rightfully so, are befuddled for one of two reasons. Either one, you don’t see the harm in the exchange, OR two, you can read between the lines. In very few words this girl called me a simpleton, a basic, an ordinary, a ‘how in the world did she get married or get a ring like that looking the way she does?’. If you think American beauty standards are harsh try interviewing a panel of Dominican women who have been engrained to believe that beauty is marked by the appearance of wealth and perfection. You never want to give them the impression that your world is lacking order. These are the 7 layers of makeup, lasso-hair-makes-for-a-finer-race, 6-inch heel wearing, don’t-ever-let-them-see-you-have-an-off-day kind. No one knows petty quite like this kind. The sad part about it is that for this particular breed of Hispanic woman the insult never comes in the form of intended malice but wrapped in a spirit of “honesty”. “I was just being honest”, they often say, “don’t take offense”.
“I’m far too Americanized and too compromised to relate, and certainly not Dominican enough to hang. ”
I was rather amused by her and her projections. Even more so, the willingness to risk her tip. That girl didn’t know me from a hole in the wall. But despite her grotesque misjudgment, I befriended her. Not out of pity but simply because I realized you cannot make enemies of those whose range is limited. For her kind, I’m far too Americanized and too compromised to relate, and certainly not Dominican enough to hang. While that may or may not be true, I will always be Dominican enough to understand the nuances. I’ll be leveraging instances like these to celebrate my unique identity and the powers that come of being in-between worlds.
