Personal Narrative: Gloria's Nail Salon

Later that day, with this sermon thumping through my mind, I went to Gloria’s Nail Salon in Alston because my sister had sent me a Groupon for my birthday. I had never been there before but acted like I knew what I was doing—like I always kept up with these things. Once in the salon, I sat in a big, leather chair in the middle of the room and sunk my feet into a small tub of hot water. When I looked around the room, I had never been so aware of myself. I was the only white person in the salon. This had never happened to me and my cloudy, white mind wouldn’t shut up. You don’t belong here. They don’t want you here. You better leave. But teenagers sat in the back of the room under hairdryers, unconcerned with the white girl who sat in

My pale, dry hands were held by hers—dark and smooth—the entire time. The differences were so apparent. Yet, she didn’t stop singing to the music, didn’t treat me any differently than the rest of the black woman who were more like her and less like me. An hour later, she finished painting my nails a dark blue and helped me put back on my sneakers incase I smudged her work. I handed her a few dollars for a tip before I made my way out and was prepared for the woman to give me a look, a kind warning: Do us a favor and don’t cross that invisible line again. Except she took the cash, shoved it in her pocket, smiled, and said, See you next time. She turned, started cleaning off the table, humming along to the music once again. See you next time, I said and decided I would go back as I walked out the door. I could sit amongst a different crowd and not have to worry about who I was and who they were because they silently gave permission even through they never received it when the roles were reversed. I held my hands out as I walked down the block to my car and looked at the dark blue against my white