Saturday at the Nail Salon
A couple days ago, I visited my local nail salon. I don’t get my nails done often, but with a couple big events ahead, it seemed appropriate to look a little more polished—apologies for the unavoidable pun. For reference, this salon sits in the heart of Buckhead, a slightly more conservative pocket in the Mecca of rap artistry known as the City of Atlanta.
I’m not a regular at this salon, but given its location, I assumed it would involve the typical nail experience—technicians speaking in lively Mandarin, with customers offering sporadic comments or silence. My assumption was wrong; instead, I would encounter a slice of American culture that rivaled an episode of The View.
During my long hour there, two older New Yorkers sat nearby, ostensibly to get their nails done, but certainly for loud conversation. The two ladies, whom I’ll call Lady One and Lady Two, began their repartee by examining Lady One’s bargain find, a mug of cinnamon candy that she’d just snatched up at Whole Foods. A neck brace and scooter did little to dampen their spirits—they plowed on from there, unfiltered, through all t
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