At the nail parlour

In the spirit of sharing tales from our little corner of north-west London, here is one about the nail parlour under my house. Nothing to do with food, but the novelist - and human -in me was piqued.

I heard him before I saw him.

Heavy footsteps clumping down a flight of wooden stairs, then a pair of gigantic Blundstone boots appeared in my eyeline. “I’m here for some me-time,” announced a confident male voice.

Er, that’s not how it works, I muttered under my breath. I was there to get summer-ready feet, not to indulge in conversation with a needy stranger. Typical man, barging into a female space and not reading the room, I thought, crossly, staring down at my phone so I wouldn’t accidentally catch his eye.

The room which the stranger had so egregiously failed to read was a tiny basement with three bulky pleather spa chairs set out in a row. A kitchenette with a sliding door led off to one side, where every now and then a microwave would ping, and the nutty smell of rice would fill the air, mingling with the fumes of polish and solvents.

As the masked young nail technician removed the old polish from my feet, he chatted in Vietnamese to his colleague whose lunch had evidently been interrupted by the arrival of the man in Blundstones. This suited both of us; I was grateful for the care he took in tackling the dead skin on my feet with a lethal-looking device into which he had slid a new, paper-wrapped blade, but I didn’t see why he should be forced to make small talk with me as he was doing it. Besides, I was taking advantage of the wifi to work through my emails.

“We need Google translate, here, mate!” boomed the man from his chair.

I continued to stare down at my phone, refusing to meet his eye. Thankfully, at that moment, a young woman wearing a wide-peaked baseball cap came down the stairs and was led to the chair between us, obscuring my view of the Blundstone man. Let her deal with him, I thought, uncharitably, as a new nail technician filled up the foot bath with blue-tinted soapy water, and sat down before the customer on a low stool.

“I used to be a nail-biter,” mused the man with the air of someone about to reveal a profound truth. “I stopped during the pandemic, and ever since then I treat myself to a manicure as a reward.” There was a raspy, one-note quality to his voice, almost as though he was reading from a script.

“Is it?,” replied the woman, pleasantly. “It’s hard giving up, you know, you did good. My kid’s dad is babysitting so I get to have some time to myself. I love this place,” she added, dreamily.

“How old is your kid?”

“He’s eight. He’s non-verbal.”

“What does that mean?”

“He doesn’t talk. He can’t communicate. He has ASD.”

I wondered how the man was going to process this piece of information, without turning the conversation back around to himself

“What’s ASD?” he said, finally.

“Autism spectrum disorder. He’s autistic.”

The man paused, and it appeared their conversation had reached the end of the line. About time too. The woman had been extraordinarily patient with him. “So I’m guessing your son’s good at maths?”

“We don’t know yet because he can’t talk.”

“Music, then?” said the man, hopefully. “Art?”

Astonishingly, the woman did not seem offended at his questions. “For now, he goes to mainstream school…..we’re hoping his language will come on,” she added.

“I’m guessing his dad doesn’t live with you?” said the man in a conversational tone of voice

Ow, ow, ow. First, he implied her son was Rain Man because he was autistic, then, for reasons only known to himself, he assumed she was single mother. It was impossible to read the woman’s expression beneath the brim of her cap. All I could see was her pretty foot, a gold box chain hanging loosely around the ankle, as the technician painted the tips of each toenail with a thin white line.

“Me and his dad split up when he was a baby, but we’re still on good terms. My new man’s great with my boy. He loves him. Sometimes I think it’s the only reason we’re still together,” she added, wistfully.

“He must be a nice guy if he’s good with your son.”

“He is a nice guy, but he’s immature. He still goes on lads’ holidays with his mates, always chasing a good time. I’ve got responsibilities, I work full time, I love my job. I’m independent, you know? I’ve had my own place since I was seventeen. What about you, are you married?”

The man sighed heavily. “For my sins, yes I am.”

“How long have you and your wife been together?”

“Seventeen years.”

“Seventeen years? That’s looooong. You must be doing something right! What’s the best piece of advice you can give someone if they want to stay married?”

The man gave a hollow laugh. “My advice if you want to stay married is this. Don’t try and change a person. What they are when you meet them is what they’ll be twenty years down the line. They’re not going to become a different person, no matter how much you try and change them. My wife should have married a finance bro,” he added bitterly.

The woman laughed. “So what job do you do then?”

“I’m a tree surgeon. Not gonna lie, a posh tree surgeon… born with a silver spoon in my mouth…. private schools, grew up in Dulwich…. but I was a tree surgeon when I met her, and I’m a tree surgeon now.”

“Not everyone has to work in an office, you know. And at least your job won’t be taken over by AI”

“Hmmm. Who knows. I talk too much, that’s my problem,” mused the man, almost to himself. “Sometimes I don’t know when to stop. I’m not always the best at working out what people are thinking. Could be a touch of the old AC/DCs, but no point testing now. At least that’s how I see it.”

The woman’s feet were done, and the technician had packed up her trolley, gathering up the bunched up wads of cotton and throwing them into the bin. I watched the customer slip on her rubber sliders, and pick up her phone from the arm of the chair. As she slung her bag over her shoulder, she turned towards the man.

“I enjoyed our conversation,” she said, softly. “I needed someone to talk to today.”

“I enjoyed it too,” replied the man. “You’re an excellent person. I mean it. A really excellent person.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. “So are you.”