Fact: There are more nail salons in New York City than McDonald’s and Starbucks combined. 

Fact: Over 80% are women owned, and over 90% immigrant owned. 

Fact: Every manicure offers all answers, and also The Answer:  a fleeting, temporary moment of enlightenment.  

Fact: This author loves two truths and a lie. 

Don’t Touch

WALK-INS WELCOME, CASH ONLY NO REFUND, the sign declares. Once again you find yourself, latte in hand and discontent in heart, outside the little nail salon on the corner of 46th and 2nd. What is it about a little sweet treat and a shady manicure that makes your empty life bearable?  Materialistic bitch, you chide yourself as you enter.

The little door opens into a hazy, translucent film shimmering like morning mist caught in sunlight. It is made of a white so pure and strong, it is blinding.  You step forward tentatively, expecting to feel the familiar resistance of air. Instead, your foot meets no solid ground as it plunges through, sending ripples across the luminescent barrier. As you push forward and through, the space around you bends in impossible ways. 

Welcome to The Other Side. The barrier you just passed fades to a distant shimmer behind you, its memory already retreating into the recesses of your mind like shit flushing down a toilet. Or a dream (prettier metaphor).

There is a counter and a short, wrinkled woman whose name-tag reads Madame Marigold. “Welcome back”, says Madame Marigold in an ambiguous accent you can’t quite place. She is emanating an authority and peace that you last sensed in your second grade homeroom teacher. It puts you at ease.

She leads you down the hall to the array of manicure chairs. You don’t know what they are called, so you assume they are called manicure chairs. 

There are two young women standing by, clearly displeased at your presence. “Not me, fuck no”, says one in the same unfamiliar accent. “She whine insufferably every time.” 

“It is your turn, Gerta”, says Madame Marigold. 

You take a seat and Gerta examines your chipped tips and overgrown cuticles. You feel naked and ashamed, but Gerta is unfazed. Something tells you Gerta has been through much and seen all. With her strong grip, she places your hands in warm foamy water. “So how was month?”, she asked. “Let me guess, you have no problems but still no happy. Never happy”. 

“Um, excuse me?”, you begin. “I am actually fine, I just feel a little-” 

“Lost?”,  Gerta raises her eyebrows. You gasp. Your fingers soak. Silence.

A loud crunch to your side brings you back to reality. Madame Marigold is back, munching happily on a Britannia Marie-Gold. “What the fuck is happening?”, you are wondering. “It's probably all the acetone.”

“Look, I’m not lost”, I told Gerta. “I just don’t know if I am doing life right.”

Gerta is now pulling out what could only qualify as some sort of surgical instrument. She uses it to firmly push back each cuticle on your nails. You would almost think the little hunks of dead skin had wronged her personally. 

“Right and wrong are just tags we slap onto actions based on a consensus reality - a reality as steady and dependable as a canoe made of cling film. Remember that in the grand existential scheme of things, you’re just an artist choosing shades of grey to fill your canvas, and occasionally, for sport, a splash of outrageous pink.”, says MM.   

“Ow”, you wince as Gerta begins to massage your hand betwixt each finger with a coarse scrub, her callus skin making it objectively worse. “Is exfoliation”, she grunts.

“How then, is anything significant? Is there no meaning behind our arbitrary choices?”, you furrow your brows. 

“Humans need stories. The best part of being human is being able to pick the stories you want to believe in”, says MM. “Remember, ultimately, your life is the experience of your life.” 

“So if it is all made up, I should enjoy life? Have fun? Go do? Sounds easy but how does one do that? I think humans are too smart for their own good.” 

“Too smart?”, Gerta sniggers. “Bunch of neurons make a consciousness that is very proud of itself for having bunch of neurons.” She points towards the wall of color options behind you and your jaw drops. It is not just a display, but an all-encompassing, retina-dazzling rainbow on steroids— each little bottle shining like a gem and every shade richer and truer than your eyes have ever experienced. You want to express your uniqueness and individuality, to pick the best one for yourself. Unfortunately, you are the third semi financially independent woman in her 20s to choose “sepia almond” that afternoon. 

Gerta carefully begins the first coat of polish, and before you can stop yourself, the questions tumble out. “Who are you guys? Where am I, what is this and–” 

“Don’t touch!”, she says with a sharp slap to your hands. You were actually not even close to touching the paint. 

MM smiles, her eyes twinkling like stars in a midnight sky, “Why do you think the modern woman is obsessed with getting her nails done of all things? They come for us. Our legacy stretches back through the annals of history." 

“We give treatment”, said Gerta, “for the human and female condition. 

MM leans forward. "There are thousands of us. In ancient China, we ran the Imperial Beauty Palaces. In the courts of Egypt, we serviced beauty temples dedicated to the goddess Hathor. From the Hammams of the Islamic world to the grand bathhouses of Rome to the perfuming centres of Agra, billions of women have come. And today, they come to our nail salons. The setting has changed, but the essence never. We are the keepers of truth, the modern-day alchemists of transformation."

"We give more than shiny nail", Gerta chimes in. 

MM's voice reduces to a whisper. "We give a transient enlightenment. Everything you learn, you will know but not remember after you walk out.” Her words hang in the air, throbbing with meaning and magic.

“Is remembering not knowin–”

“Don’t touch!” Your hand draws another sharp jab from Gerta. “Twenty minutes to air dry”, she says, finally letting go. 

 "So tell us", as she speaks, Madame Marie-Gold slowly reaches behind her, producing a small, ornate golden tray. On it rests a single Marie-Gold biscuit. “What is it really?"

 “I am worried that continuous growth is an illusion and decay is inevitable. I keep climbing from epiphany to epiphany, never further off the ground. Lips around the fruit of realisation, never biting into it. I have moved so much, but I’m afraid I am still here.”

“My child”, she begins, “you mistake the journey for mere ascent. The path isn't about scaling peaks or conquering heights. It's about enduring the climb itself. We are not climbers reaching for the top; we are the clinging vines, growing not upward but outward, embracing the rugged face of life itself. We do not scale the heights—we grow into them, expand within them until, perhaps one day, we simply let go and become part of the landscape we struggled against. In this journey, you don’t go up. You just go on until you can’t one day." You gasp. A Britannia Marie-Gold melts in your mouth. Silence.

"22.50, dear. Cash only."

In a daze, you pull out 50 bucks and place it on the Marie-Gold tray. Gerta smiles for the first time, revealing a toothy grin at the prospect of a 122% tip. "Come again", she says as she is already wobbling out of the room. You step out of the little nail salon and Manhattan engulfs you, indifferent as ever. With each step, the aggressively average taste of Marie-Gold dissipates in your mouth and all traces of Gerta and MM drain from your memory.