“Have you worked here long?” I asked. “Two years,” she said, to my astonishment—
she appeared to be around fourteen years of age and, to the best of my knowledge, child labor was still outlawed in this country.
“And did you always want to be a...” I grappled for the word “... manicurist?”
“Nail technician,” she corrected me. She was intent on her task and did not look at me while she talked, which I approved of enormously.
There is categorically no need for eye contact when the person concerned is wielding sharp implements.
“I wanted either to work with animals or to be a nail technician,” she continued.
She had moved on to a hand massage now. More deluxe pampering, presumably,
although I found it rather pointless and ineffectual, and was concerned for potential allergic reactions.
Her hands were tiny, almost as small as mine (which are, unfortunately, abnormally small, like a dinosaur’s).
I would have preferred a man’s hands: larger, stronger, firmer. Hairier.
“So yeah,” she said, “I couldn’t decide between animals or nails, so I asked my mum, and she said I should go for nail technician.”
She picked up an emery board and began to shape my nails. It was an awkward process, one that would have definitely been easier to do oneself.
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