Hands
Sept 2023
Vy Nguyen
Portraits of white faces and red coffin nails are enshrined in 20” by 30” photo frames. Shelves of little glass bottles bear the names “Yank My Doodle” and “Tickle My France-y.” Sparkles? Stripes? Shellac? Stiletto? All these women with shiny black hair oblige every request.
Peering back down, I try fighting the urge to move and further fuel my mom’s rage as she glares at me from her seat on a stool below me. She holds one of my smooth hands in a death-grip, turning it side-to-side. Clumps of wrinkled gold pigment hug the edges of my cuticles. Dry scraps of nail polish cling to my fingers. I keep wiggling my toes. I can’t help but poke my head out of the door a few times, itching to touch the buzzing electric drills. Enraptured by the rows of black-haired women illuminated beneath overhead lamps, I watch as white flakes swirl toward their faces and settle atop their heads—like angels donning bright halos. Sniffing the air, I smell the acrid sweetness of nail polish permeating the building, making its presence known even in the backroom that I’m in.
My mom yanks me away from the door. “How many times?” Shaking her head, she gives me another one of her looks. “Noi voi con roi...Do not go out there.”
Grabbing onto my other hand and drenching a cotton ball with nail polish remover, she wipes away the chunks of gold on my nails, leaving behind bare hands that burn from the cold sensation of acetone. My eyes water, and I sneeze twice while my mom mutters “Troi oi,” merely reaching over for the cherry-red polish glistening inside of the vial beside her. With barely a single pause, she grips onto my pinky. Her cracked hands scratch my soft fingers as she paints vertical lines onto my nail beds. The cherry-red lines melt into each other. Hypnotized by the brush strokes, I watch as the glossy red bubbles burst open upon contact like drops of blood that spread across my entire nail.
“Con co muong me ve hoa, khong?”
“Yes! On my thumb! On my thumb!”
My mom grabs some extra tools and draws white rounded petals on both of my thumbs. I hold my arms in front of me, splaying out my hands and looking down at my mom from between my fingers. Giggling, I twirl around.
“Thank you, mom.”
“Thirty dollar at salon, you know. I will always give you free.”
“Okay,” I clap my hands once. “My turn now. Ooooh, what about this one?” I grab a rosy-pink bottle that says “Feelin’ Hot-Hot-Hot!” and wave it in front of my mom’s face.
I can already see it unfolding before me: gripping onto smooth fingers and painting pretty patterns. I’m an angel who’s donning a glowing halo made of white flakes that fly out from beneath electric drills. Inhaling all the pungent chemicals with gusto, I’ll fly into a higher realm as the tingling fumes enter my nose and settle on my skin.
“No. No, no,” she says while shooing me away. “You wait for hand to dry. Use lotion after.”
“But—”
I stand with “Feelin’ Hot-Hot-Hot!” in one hand, staring at the back of my mom’s head as she returns to an empty seat among rows of gray-tinged women sitting beneath the shadows of lamps. I just watch from my place in the backroom. I guess I’ll have to wait until she’s not working. When I do finally paint her nails, I’ll prance around on the balls of my feet with my thoroughly lotioned hands and blood-red polish, spritzing acetone onto my body as perfume.