I avoided nail salons for a long time. What’s the point of wasting my time and money there? Everything would break after three days. I confess, for me, these places also rhymed with a certain superficiality, or worse, being seen there would have betrayed some of my dark vain traits. I also think I keep memories of my youth grunge of the 1990s when “acting like a girl” was frowned upon among my college companions who, apart from our obligatory pink skirts, favored wide-leg pants, combat boots and checked shirts. To be accepted, I played the game, repressing as much as possible what, on the contrary, I would have liked to reveal. Hide that lipstick, hide that little locker mirror that others can’t see…
However, a little over ten years ago, at the end of my young life as a mother, a friend took me to see the late Tami, on Duluth Street in Montreal. So I went there, giggling like a witch over it all, rolling my eyes in sinful apprehension. I would bring the last Goncourt, I would be told to be patient and I would come out with the prettiest hands in town to change my daughter’s diapers.
Since then, I have been frequenting nail bars regularly. Perhaps with the same thirsty fervor as the gentlemen who once took refuge in the local tavern. However, my favorite places are inclusive. If I’m drunk, it’s from all the stories I hear there, these discussions at first embarrassed and cautious, then open and uninhibited, these smiles exchanged, often complicit or moved, shared beyond social classes, age, hierarchies, origins, genders or anything that would mark a difference between the hypereclectic clientele with a strong female majority.
Sisters on the horizon
It’s by reading My dear sisters (Seuil, 2019) that I found in the words of the French writer Chloé Delaume the particular spirit of these places which are much more than landmarks for aesthetes: “The term sorority implies the horizontal, it does not is not a replica of patriarchy. The sisterhood neutralizes the idea of domination, hierarchy, pyramid. The quality of sister, experiences, multiple ages, the circle is of words that are listened to as equals. Different but equal. »
A simple comment on someone else’s appearance is often enough for the atmosphere to descend into confidences, a question of physical proximity perhaps too. We are changing the world on a small scale. The climb up the steps is gentle, breaking the isolation that many unconsciously impose on themselves to stay in their bubble.
I learned from a client that the pain that was poisoning my life could be linked to the first symptoms of menopause. I introduced the local habits and customs to a new arrival, insisting (gently) in passing that French, here, is not an optional language… Last week, she came to pick up books from my house for his youngest. I saw people there consoling each other, supporting each other. This is how rhizomes are born, as strong as they may be, even hidden under the choice of a varnish color which can take on epic proportions. As if suddenly our lives depended on a shade of peach or purple. In reality, the time of this decision, however futile it may be, marks a suspension of time, a truce in the chaos of our lives.
Did I mention nail clippings; the ballerina, the almond, the oval, the square, the nail art…? Not necessary. The backstage of the superficial is teeming with essential matters unrelated to nail care. I can’t wait to go back. Above all, don’t forget to ask the owner’s daughter for the recipe for barley and vegetable soup, who praised its benefits. As for manicure, I want a red turning black. Why would I do without it? It’s fall, after all.