I really need my nails done, so I stop by a corner salon in Largo, FL.
A tiny and pregnant nail tech (that's what the certificate on the wall
calls her) flashing a very toothy smile motions for me to sit at her station.
"Put hands in." I stare, stupidly. She pushes my hands into a red cup
to soak. OK, I get it. Her English is broken. But I think it's for
effect, because it improves with each story she tells. And she tells a
million of 'em.
She's due in July, the baby had better like the heat. Her husband
wants Chinese food for dinner; he can just go down the street and buy
it. Her sister-in-law works at a nail salon in Syracuse (which is near
where I live) and slides to work in the snow. Philadelphia has THE
BEST Chinese food; and she should know, because she's Vietnamese.
And then, she insists, "Next time you come here bring all 10 nails." I
cock my head.
"What am I supposed to do with this? Why'd you leave the nail at home?"
She picks up my pinky (the one with the nail broken down to the quick)
and flashes it to the other techs. They giggle with her.
But, I giggle, too. Because she's funny. And I find it quite enjoyable
to have a tiny, pregnant Vietnamese comic cracking jokes while
she files and paints my nails. Her stories are funny. And, she's got
a million of 'em.