“Today is all mine!” Amara exclaimed, throwing both arms in the air.
She glanced out the window one more time at the street, as if afraid the school bus her two sons had boarded might come back. Of course, the bus was long gone. Cheerfully, she grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter. She double-checked all three of her appointments before heading to the wardrobe.
She slipped into comfortable linen trousers and a soft cotton T-shirt. She’d be spending a long time at both the hairdresser and the nail salon. The cosmetic treatment would be the shortest, but even that would take nearly an hour. It was essential that her skin felt free and breathable while she indulged in her self-renewal. Amara looked forward not only to the slow, relaxing process of pampering but also to the cheerful conversations.
“What color would you like?” asked the nail technician, a woman in her mid-thirties.
“I’ve dreamed up something really bold. I hope it’s doable.”
“Oh, don’t keep me in suspense! What is it this time?”
Amara loved the unique and the unusual. She often presented a creative challenge to the young woman, who took great pleasure in crafting beautiful, distinctive nails for her clients.
“Sunflowers,” Amara said.
“No problem. I already have an idea. You’ll have sunflowers so stunning they’ll look alive.”
The nail technician got to work. Amara could hardly wait to share the news: she’d finally ordered the new car she’d been longing for.
“Is everything okay with you?” she asked politely before diving into her news.
She didn’t actually care about the answer but didn’t want to jump straight into bragging.
“I haven’t taken a day off in a year and a half. I’ve had horrible headaches for weeks,” the technician groaned.
“Why don’t you rest, then?”
“Because I have loans to pay. It’s really tough to cover everything with two kids.”
“Isn’t there anyone who can help you?”
The woman shook her head.
Amara wanted to ask what she could do for her, but she knew she couldn’t solve the problem with a loan. Offering to babysit the twin girls occasionally wouldn’t provide a lasting solution either. Instead, she listened to the exhausted mother, offering her sympathy. She hoped even that much helped.
The warm, sweet smell of the hair salon gradually filled the void left in her soul by the depressing conversation with the nail technician. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, enjoying the firm yet gentle fingers massaging her scalp into a bubbly lather. She didn’t speak or ask questions at first; she needed to recover from the last hour and a half.
“You look so pretty,” she commented later, as the hairdresser, a woman in her fifties, began working on her new style.
“If only you knew the cost,” the hairdresser replied, curling her lip.
“Oh, don’t tell me it’s an illness?”
“That would almost be better…”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well,” she began in a somber tone, “my husband told me he doesn’t like my body. He said I’ve gained too much weight since he married me at 25.” She paused to stifle a sob. “He told me I either lose the weight, or he’ll find a mistress.”
Amara was at a loss for words.
“Since then, I barely dare to eat. But I’m over 50. I’ll never be what I was 30 years ago. How could he even think that?”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m dieting.”
“Isn’t that cruel of him?”
“Well, he’s not wrong,” the hairdresser said defensively, “because I’ve never really cared about my figure. You know, I stand here all day, and after work, I just don’t feel like exercising. But he’s always been meticulous about his appearance.”
“That still doesn’t make it fair to demand your 20-something figure from you.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. He says this isn’t what he signed up for, and he feels cheated.”
“You gave birth to three kids. And you’re not even overweight.”
“I wear a size 12 now; I used to be a size 6. But whatever, I’ll try. I don’t want him running around with other women.”
The retired woman’s tiny salon was just a few minutes’ walk away. At first, Amara considered driving, but she needed to clear her head after what she’d heard at the hairdresser’s. She took deep breaths of the rain-scented air after a passing shower and glanced at her nails. She smiled. They looked beautiful. Just as the nail technician had predicted, they almost seemed alive.
“Gorgeous,” the elderly beautician admired her hands. “That girl always does an amazing job. I might even be tempted to try some youthful nail art myself.”
“Are you feeling better now?” Amara asked the woman bending over her, who had had her appendix removed a few months earlier.
“Thank God, I’m perfectly fine now, thank you, my dear. My whole family is relieved.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Did Pablo take good care of you during your recovery?” she asked with a smile.
“That bastard?” the woman replied casually.
“Excuse me? We’re talking about Pablo, your partner?”
“Yes, that scoundrel.”
“Sorry, I—”
“No need to apologize. I’ve never mentioned it before. He drinks, you see, and when he downs half a bottle of brandy and a bottle of wine, he can be a real brute. Shouting and all that. The whole house echoes.”
“I’m so sorry. I thought you two were doing well. When I see you shopping together, you look like such a lovely couple.”
“Oh, when he’s sober, he’s great. Not so much when he drinks.”
“Then why stay with him?”
“Because I’m not leaving him the house. I worked so hard for it. And there’s no way to kick him out.”
Her appetite was gone. She couldn’t stomach even a bite. Girls’ day, huh? Misery everywhere she looked. The only thing the day was good for was getting her nails, hair, and brows done. And to remind her to be grateful that her husband only cheated on her with his secretary. At least he didn’t drink or hurt her. On the contrary, he nursed her tenderly when she was ill.