At the Nail Salon

I periodically take Mom to the nail salon. Sometimes there is a beautician at her facility that will give her a manicure, but they don’t seem to last long.  Mom is extremely proud of her nails and receives compliments on them a lot. They are beautiful- they are strong and can grow to claw-like proportions if we are not paying attention. Even at 91, Mom is lovely and quite vain. She really enjoys an outing to the nail salon. For as long as I can remember,  Mom used to get her hair done at the beauty salon every Friday, so she feels happy surrounded by other women getting beautiful. 

I usually sit next to her and chat with her while the technician works on her nails. I feel protective of her because once she starts to repeat herself, people look up and watch her. And I am worried the technician might get confused by Mom’s chatter. I feel like my presence gives Mom status since I casually converse with her even though she repeats the same comments and questions over and over. Since mom’s repetitions are a normal part of our conversations, I patiently repeat the same answers I have given only minutes before.  I suppose it is fascinating to witness the combination of her cheerful looping and me acting like we are having a perfectly normal conversation.

I think that people view our interaction kindly because invariably a woman will stop by and tell us that we remind her of times she and her mother spent together at the nail salon.  She looks wistfully at us and tells us how she misses her mother.  It reminds me to treasure these little excursions.

Mom worries the whole time about paying for the service herself.  She doesn’t like it one bit if I pay.  To maintain her sense of independence and dignity, we have set up a credit card for her to use.  The minute we sit down in the salon she begins to fumble with the credit card, her driver’s license, and her library and Medicare cards, taking them out of her wallet over and over, most likely nervous that she won’t be ready when it is time to pay or worried that she won’t have the means to pay.  I have to reassure her repeatedly that she can use her credit card when her nails are done. But of course she doesn’t remember, so this activity happens again and again.  Finally, when her nails are dry, we go to pay.  She takes out her credit card with a majestic smile, and I can tell how proud and competent she feels as she independently pays for herself – plus, she is a good tipper!