“Mama is that lady drunk?”
The girl didn’t ask out loud, her wide eyes and worried brow said it for her.
It’s 9:00am on a sunny Tuesday. The nail salon is crowded with respectable females.
My nails were painted with a glossy coat of plum-purple. I clambered down off the elevated pedicure chair, struggling to keep both my balance and those flimsy pedicure flip flops on my feet.
The girl sat watching me with the same concerned awe she’d display watching a dangerous high-wire act. Soon, every eye in the place found me.
I shuffled and lurched toward the drying table, staggering like…. well…like a drunk.
In a room crammed with chattering women and girls—
I was the entertainment.
Desperately hoping to arrive at the drying table with pristine nails, I focused on maneuvering through the crush. I hazarded a glance at the girl’s mother, who briefly met my eyes; then found something fascinating on the floor. If you don’t acknowledge the drunk lady at the salon she’s not really there.
I finally plopped into the chair and sighed, bugged by the scraped glob of half-dry polish on Lefty’s big toe.
My observant pedicurist saw my dismay and came to the rescue with polish remover and fresh double coat of polish. Pretty.
For years, I’ve been that weird middle aged white woman with dreadlocks.
Now, I guess I’m that strange drunk-ish white woman with dreads.
Just a minor change.
I can live with it.