The Power of a Nail Salon

Last Saturday, I found myself in a huge shopping plaza to fetch a race packet for a local half marathon. In my 13 years of racing, I’ve never had to pick up a race packet from a fancy, outdoor shopping mall where women push small dogs in large strollers and purchase $28.00 bar soap in the shape of wine glasses and high-heeled shoes; where men causally dress in Gucci for a weekend of window shopping and coffee tinder dates; where it’s possible to spend an entire paycheck on buttery stationary and moisture-wicking socks. California, in all it’s sprawling, gorgeous natural beauty, is full of surprises and contradictions.

There was a nail salon adjacent to the tent where I picked up my race packet, and my nails had been naked for months. I walked in and said, “I’d like a manicure, please” to the Vietnamese woman who greeted me. She smiled broadly and said, “Gel?” and I smiled back, nodding. We settled on opposite sides of a table and she handed me a pile of color samples to choose from. I flipped through them, undecided between two. “Which one do you like better?” I asked her. She paused, holding my hand against both samples considering which polish would look best against my skin. “I like this one,” she declared, pointing to a charcoal grey hue. “I like it too,” I said, “I’ll do that one.”

She looked at me happily and began the long, tireless, thankless work of shaping my…