Her tattooed forearm reached over to examine the state of my in-water-far-too-much hands. I apologized for my negligence as if having perfect hands and fingernails were of the utmost importance while in the season of raising small children. She tried to remain unbiased, this woman who makes beautifying hands her occupation. I’m certain she had seen worse but my own were definitely not going to be featured in a catalog anytime soon.
I was sure she had already formulated a profile of me in her mind. Suburban mom. Blonde. Going to a spa to treat my jagged nails.
What she didn’t know was that I have a story that isn’t really congruent with a suburban mom. I am blonde only due to “enhancements” made to my natural color and I had a gift card leftover from my birthday – last year.
“Tell me about your tattoo,” my non-body-art-sporting self asked her.
She briefly stopped filing and looked at me to be sure I was serious, that I wasn’t mocking her. When she realized my question was genuine, her face illuminated.
“It’s to help me remember where I have been and where I’m going,” she replied.