Blond bob next to blond bob. Each a different shade of dye, but I have given up telling one from the other. The blond bob in front of me is scanning her speculative eyes over my nastily bitten nails. With one eyebrow raised and a couple clicking sounds from her mouth she looks up at me and sighs. I then flash her an unabashed smile. My nail biting has been the spark of many arguments between my mother and I, but so far it seems I cannot get my teeth away from those tips. Now the lady charged with the task of fixing the mess cowers at the war zone that awaits her.

“Mija, están horribles. Solo me imagino lo que te dice tú madre.”

I smile at her again and nod my head as I usually do when she speaks. It is so loud in the salon that I can blame not understanding her on the noise rather than the shortcomings of my native Spanish. 

She sets my hand down and laughs to herself. I can’t help laughing too. I then wiggle my toes in the bucket of warm water she has set in front of me, knowing that she will only be more frightened when beholding those beauties. Toe picking, an extension of my undeniable skill at nail biting, has sparked even more heated debates at home. 

Fernanda, as the nail lady is called, displays an array of different colors to choose from. I think she is teasing me because whenever I pick the dark red, she tells me I would look better with light pink. In that sense, I don’t appreciate the nail biter discrimination. Many times I have advocated for our rights to my mother, and many times she has denied me the pleasure of a dark blue coat or a deep purple.

Olivia, tus uñas, they are too short for a color like that. It would only bring attention to them.

I suspect she has expressed this sentiment with Fernanda behind my back. And in that hypothetical, yet most likely real scenario, my dark nail dreams died. Or I’m too suspicious. Either way, I have never been given the pleasure of a beautiful wine red, only the hyper awareness that it is just out of reach, if only I were bold enough to extend my hand and take it for myself. Maybe that is why she won’t let me try it. One has to be bold to sport red nails. Nail biters are not bold.

“¿Qué color, mi niña?”

I slump in my chair and point at the light pink.