I’ve been running my own nail salon for well over a decade. And as much as I run the place, I still enjoy being hands-on. My salon isn’t just any salon; it’s a sanctuary where the air hums with the sounds of life and the scent of polish and acrylics.
Ironically, my sanctuary was where I met Isabella, and unwittingly became a character in her unfolding drama.
Now, I’m used to drama in the salon — it’s where people come to get things off their minds.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Naomi!” Clara, a regular client, would say before she even sat down.
I loved my job.
And then, one day, Isabella walked into my salon.
Her presence immediately commanded attention once she entered the salon and went to the reception desk.
“I’d like her to do my nails,” she said, pointing to me.
Macy, my receptionist, nodded. She walked Isabella over to me and introduced us to each other before going back to her desk.
I set up my station with fresh towels, asking Isabella if she wanted anything to drink.
She asked for a manicure with a gaze that seemed to pierce through the usual salon chitchat I was used to.
“So,” she began, when she sat down in front of me, “how long have you been doing nails?”
“For about ten years,” I responded, focusing on her hands.
“That’s impressive,” she said, a polite smile playing on her lips. “You must have a lot of regular clients, too.”
“I do,” I admitted, feeling a sense of pride swell within me. I loved being a safe space for my clients.
The conversation meandered from Isabella asking me how I got into the industry to something peculiarly specific.
“I work across the road from you,” Isabella mentioned. “And I’ve noticed a certain car parked outside a few times. A black sedan. Does it belong to one of your regulars?”
What does this woman want? I asked myself.
“We have too many clients who come and go. It’s impossible to keep track of every car, sorry.”
But Isabella was on a mission, her questions growing more probing with each brush stroke
“This salon has a great reputation, Naomi. Do you have many male clients?” Isabella pressed on.
“Yes, it’s become quite popular for males to take care of their nails, too,” I replied.
“Do you have clients who are, let’s say, more than just clients?” she asked, her eyes locking onto mine, challenging me to reveal secrets that weren’t mine to share.
“I’m married, Isabella,” I said cautiously. “And we pride ourselves on our professionalism.”
“I just have to ask. Are you having an affair with my husband?” she asked, her eyes wide.
I met her gaze, unflinching.
“I’ve seen his car here, Naomi. I need to know. If it’s not you, then is it a member of your staff?”
I tried to placate her because she was getting worked up, smudging her nails in the process.
“Look, it’s possible that he might have dropped someone off,” I said.
Isabella refused to believe me. But eventually, she gave in.
Despite the rocky first meeting, Isabella became a regular — her visits were often tinged with an unspoken tension. There was so much she wanted to ask, but I didn’t have any answers for her.
Although, I did start keeping an eye out for the black sedan.
Then, one day, the black sedan left just before she arrived, having picked up a woman whose nails I had just done.
“Naomi,” Isabella said, sitting down. “You know something. What is it?”
I showed her the nail design I had done for my previous client, hoping to distract her from her suspicions.
What I didn’t know was that I had inadvertently given her the clue she needed.
Two weeks later, Isabella showed up for her usual appointment. She brought a box of pastries and coffee.
“I have so much to tell you, Naomi,” she said.
At a family gathering over the weekend, Isabella finally got the answers she had wanted all along. Her sister, Gina, arrived at the event, proudly showing off her nails.
Her nails had the exact design I had shown Isabella.
“Things finally made sense!” she exclaimed, biting into a pastry. “My sister is always hanging around my house. She used to say it was because her roommate was too messy.”
Confronted with the truth, Gina confessed to Isabella, outing her affair with Isabella’s husband.
“I should have known all along,” she said. “Gina mentioned she usually goes to one of the ladies for her nails, but it was the first time you did them. So, I understand that you don’t know her.”
I felt horrible for her — but at the end of the day, at least she was able to uncover the truth and move on from her cheating husband.
Isabella became a regular at my salon, always walking in with new stories about her job or family.
“I have a date today,” she said one afternoon. “I’m ready for a new life. What color do you think?”
“Red,” I told her boldly.
As I painted her nails, I couldn’t help but feel a connection with Isabella. She had walked in, all those months ago, hoping for answers — which she finally got. But in the end, she also found a sanctuary in my space.
Do you have any similar stories?
