Three Times I Cried at the Nail Salon

(Within the span of one hour)

1. A wistful piano melody weeps from the speakers on repeat. It’s the same unidentifiable music the nail salon plays every time I’m here, and something about the tune is profoundly nostalgic to me. Suddenly I’m transported from my manicure appointment into the back yard of the home I grew up in, reading under the apricot tree, gorging myself on ripened fruit until my belly aches, wondering if my mother will ever return.

   
   “This music always makes me so sad,” I say to Vincent, who’s been doing my nails since December. He smiles awkwardly because he doesn’t know me well enough to address my tears with anything other than silence. Jessica, who artfully tended my nails for majority of the 11 years I lived in West LA, would have said it was because I missed Isaac. She would have been right.

2. On the other end of the salon, a little girl with waist length chestnut hair, and what I assume is her mother, sit side by side in white leather massage chairs. The girl is 7, maybe 8 at most—an age when getting a pedicure with your mama is the sweetest treat. Isaac was about her age when we moved to California where I was born and raised, the place that he would eventually, after shedding the remnants of Maryland from his skin, associate with home.
   
   In just a few days he will celebrate his 19th solar return and I am once again overcome with a mixture of awe and anguish; I wonder if I’ll ever stop wishing I could go back and do it all over again, do it better, do it with more softness, more presence. Everyone who’s raised children will advise parents of young ones not to take it for granted because it’ll pass you by too quickly; no one ever listens.

3. It’s my turn in the pedicure chair and the nail tech is massaging my feet, calves, and shins. They ache, as does my heart: I can’t remember the last time someone touched me.
   
   Psychologists call it “skin hunger,” and I am starving, absolutely bereft of oxytocin.
   
   I’m understanding that it’s possible to cherish and even prefer my solitude, while simultaneously craving physical touch. Two things can be true at once, and the truth is that I’m secure in my singlehood while also wondering if I’m destined to die alone. I’m crying at the nail salon, and I never want this massage to end.

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Offerings and invitations of potential interest

First and foremost, my love, always. It remains my utmost intention to write words that help take you a little closer to wherever you’re going. Second, a few things going on in my corner of the world that may be of interest to you:

My new book, Underneath the Same Big Sky, is available for pre-order, and I would be so honored if you reserved a signed copy. Publishing this July in celebration of Chronically Chill’s second birthday, this collection of essays was written during my midlife metamorphosis, encompassing grief, joy, solitude, connection, and an early exploration of the second half of life.

Pre-orders are so important for self-published authors because we don’t receive a book advance; your purchase is what allows me to afford basic living necessities while I write the book.

I’m hosting a Gemini New Moon Circle at the end of this month and would love for you to be a part of it. These monthly virtual gatherings are such a balm to my soul, and attendee feedback reflects much of the same sentiment. Tickets are sliding scale, as always—pay what you can (as little as $5) and join for a new moon Tarot reading, spell casting, and community connection. Get your tickets here.

A little bit of everything,
Neghar