The mixture of acetone and crystal nail powder intoxicated the air as nails were being clipped, filed, and painted. Words like french manicure, cuticles, pedicure, acrylic, buffer, and acetone were part of my daily lexicon. Every summer since 2010, I have been a seasonal assistant for my uncle who opened up his own nail salon. As an assistant, I held many responsibilities that only grew over time.
Throughout the days, my uncle would leave me alone with the nail technicians. I swept nail clippings and cotton particles from the floor. Often times, people dropped the nail polish bottles which prompted me to grab the acetone and some cotton to wipe off the stains on the marble floor. Immediately afterwards, customers had to pay for their services; one after another I was collecting and distributing money left to right. My fingerprints were ingrained on the calculator buttons from having to deal with tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills every other half hour. Meanwhile, the phone rang constantly with people calling to book appointments. From this I quickly memorized hundreds of voices and faces.
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Each of them came from Vietnam and have came here to provide for their family, some coming from six years ago to over fifteen years ago. I learned that these strong women are the sole financial providers in their household while their husbands stay home to take care of