‘What colour would you like?’ she said. My eye was drawn to a bright green hue, the same shade as a poisonous Amazonian frog, the tiny, delightfully deadly ones. I handed it to her. She nodded. She wasn’t actually chewing gum, but her demeanour was very much that of a gum chewer.
She took my hands and placed the tips of all ten fingers into the warm water. I kept a watchful eye to ensure that no other flesh made contact with the unknown detergent substances, for fear of inflaming my eczema. I sat there for several minutes, feeling rather foolish, while she rummaged in a nearby drawer and returned with a variety of stainless steel tools, carefully laid out on a tray. Her catatonic companion had finally sprung to life and was chatting enthusiastically to a co-worker at a different concession; I couldn’t discern the topic, but it seemed to prompt some eye-rolling and shrugging.
Casey deemed the moment apposite to remove my hands from the water, and she then laid them on a folded flannel. She carefully patted each fingertip dry. I wondered why she hadn’t simply asked me to remove my hands, using her voice, and passed me the towel, so I could dry them using my hands, since I was enjoying, at current point of reporting, full use and motor function in all limbs and extremities. Perhaps that was what pampering meant, though – literally, not having to lift a finger.
Casey set to work with the tools, pushing back my cuticles and trimming them where required. I essayed some chitchat, aware that this was the done thing in the circumstances.
‘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 labour 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 onto 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 to massage mine; 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.
‘Is your mother an economist or a qualified careers advisor?’ I said. Casey stared at me. ‘Because, if not, then I’m not sure that her advice was necessarily informed by the latest data on earnings projections and labour market demand,’ I said, quite concerned for her future prospects.
‘She’s a travel agent,’ Casey said firmly, as if that settled the matter. I let it drop – it was no concern of mine, after all, and she seemed happy enough at her work. The thought did strike me, as she painted on various coats of various varnishes, that she could have perhaps combined the two professions by becoming a dog groomer. However, I elected to keep my counsel on the matter. Sometimes, when you tried to help with suggestions, it could lead to misunderstandings, not all of them entirely pleasant.
She placed my hands into a small machine which was, I assumed, a hairdryer for nails, and a few minutes later the deluxe pampering was done. All in all, the experience had been rather underwhelming.
She advised me of the price – it was, frankly, extortionate. ‘I have a leaflet!’ I said. She nodded, not even asking to check it, and deducted the requisite one-third, stating the revised amount, which still left me reeling. I reached for my shopper. She said ‘Stop!’ in a very alarming fashion. I did.
‘You’ll smudge them,’ she said. She leaned forward. ‘I’ll get your purse out for you, if you like?’
I was concerned that this might be some elaborate ruse to part me from even more of my hard-earned cash, so I watched her like the proverbial hawk as she reached inside my bag. Too late, I remembered the unfinished remains of the egg sandwich which lay within – she gagged ostentatiously as she removed my purse. A slight overreaction, I felt – yes, the odour which escaped was somewhat sulphurous, but still, no need for pantomime. I kept my eyes fixed on her fingers (unpainted, I noticed) as she extracted the required notes and replaced the purse in the shopper very carefully.
I stood up, ready to take my leave. Her erstwhile companion had returned, and cast a glance at my hands, their tips gleaming green. ‘Nice,’ she said, her tone and body language implying strongly that she had little interest in the topic. Casey became slightly more animated. ‘Would you like a loyalty card?’ she said. ‘Have five manicures and the sixth one’s free!’
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I shan’t be having a manicure again. I can do the same thing myself at home, better, for nothing.’ Their mouths fell open slightly, but with that I was off, making my way back out into the world, dodging the squirters and the sample-pushers on my way past the perfume counters. I longed to be outside in natural light and fresh air again. The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature.
I got home after work and opened my wardrobe. What to wear to a party? I had two pairs of black trousers and five white blouses – well, they were white originally – which I wore to work. I had a comfortable pair of slacks, two T-shirts and two jumpers, which I wore at weekends. That left my special occasion outfit. I’d bought it for Loretta’s wedding reception years ago, and had worn it on a handful of occasions since, including a special visit to the National Museum of Scotland. The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so.
The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colours and grey plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travellers – my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions – was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea, and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?
The special occasion outfit was, I realized, somewhat outmoded now. Lemon was not a colour that suited me particularly well – fine for nightgowns, worn in the privacy of my bedroom, but hardly suitable for a sophisticated gathering. I’d go to the shops tomorrow and purchase something new; I’d be able to wear it again when I was out at a restaurant or at the theatre with my true love, so the money would not be wasted. Feeling happy with this decision, I made my usual pasta con pesto and listened to The Archers. There was a convoluted storyline involving a very unconvincing Glaswegian milkman, and I did not particularly enjoy the episode. I’d washed up and settled down with a book about pineapples. It was surprisingly interesting. I like to read as widely as possible for many reasons, not least in order to broaden my vocabulary to assist with crossword solving. Then the silence was very rudely interrupted.