I was frazzled, late, tired, hungry and depleted of vitamins when I arrived at the door of a charming nail salon in downtown Athens. It has become customary for me to book a nail appointment when I find myself in need of—apologies in advance—self-care. This nail appointment had been prompted by an unfortunate maelstrom of deadlines for my master’s degree and freelance writing assignments, which had me shuffling constantly between my bedroom and the national library (well worth a visit if you’re ever in Athens) for a couple of months.
My nails, unfortunately, reflected my inner state. They were so embarrassingly scruffy that I found myself apologising to the lovely young nail technician as she sized up the task of sorting them out. “Exam season,” I said, and she nodded, before asking me where I’m from. When I said “England”, she told me a sad and infuriating story about a cheating long-distance former boyfriend who lived in London. The boyfriend had, understandably, tainted the city for her. I consoled her by telling her that London is noisy and busy and rude and she wasn’t missing out on much. And then—such is the easy intimacy of the Greeks—I found myself rambling at length about the differences between Greek and British culture. Meanwhile, she was hard at work, cutting and filing and buffing and scrubbing my nails so she could get them into a halfway acceptable state to paint.
I chose a colour, sky-blue, before she advised me to try another similar shade which she thought might go better with my skin tone. Naturally, her choice was perfect. This attention to detail to the tiny squares of keratin at the ends of my fingers always feels like a mark of deep respect and care—in the nail salon, you are treated as though your fingernails and how you feel about them really matters, which, in turn, makes you feel as though you matter. She then proceeded to painstakingly paint each nail a stunning blue, erasing every tiny blip and mistake as she worked. I felt my shoulders relax and my mind wander as I scanned the rainbow of coloured polishes behind her.
After almost an hour had passed, she asked me gently if I would like any nail art. She produced an impossibly miniature brush and proceeded to paint a range of tiny flowers on my nails for me to choose from, before wiping off the ones I didn’t want to keep. I stuck with some understated leaves, which she topped off with a coat of glitter. I don’t mean to brag, but my nails looked absolutely stunning. Weeks later, the very sight of them still gives me a little jolt of joy.
I often get philosophical in the nail salon. Salons are places of ritual and shelter, however temporary, from the pressures of the world outside. And the nail technicians are the presiding savants; often underpaid, lacking in proper worker protections and dismissed as providing a frivolous beauty service, they have a quiet wisdom that is often overlooked. All day, every day, they flex their artistic skills and leave their clients with a portion of happiness to carry around with them. Can any of us really say that we do a more meaningful day’s work than that? It is a great comfort to me to know that, even if my life is falling apart, I can always have great nails. So far, that has always been enough.
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