Over the weekend I went to the nail salon to treat myself to a pedicure. I just go to the mediocre places; you know, the ones with the neon palm trees on the wall and old, wrinkled magazines scattered all over the coffee table.
As soon as I opened the door, I was told to pick a color. Not really a "hello", or "how can we help you?" - just simply: "pick a color." I began sorting through the rainbow of OPI polishes, feeling somewhat rushed as the man who greeted me with "pick a color" asked me what services I would like. He asked while walking backward, into the pedicure area, and was already preparing the foot bath as I finished explaining I wanted a pedicure.
Shatter. Yeah, I dropped a bottle of OPI. Something bright, turquoise - something that splattered all over the floor and my sandals. I could feel my face burning. As I stuttered several apologies, the man was already at my side, wiping the polish off of the floor. "You. Go. Now." Holy crap, I'm getting kicked out of a salon. I looked down at him through hot tears and realized he was pointing toward the warm, bubbly foot bath he had prepared for me. "I'm so sorry," I stumbled. "I'll pay for it." He calmly looked up at me and said, "It's okay. You go."
The man was rash in the beginning, but after I dropped nail polish all over the floor, he softened. In an upscale salon, everyone would have whipped around to see what happened. Everyone would whisper, they would judge. Not at this little hole in the wall salon. Nope, they were just grateful for service. And I was grateful that they treated me - a clumsy girl - like a queen.