A few weeks ago I popped into a nail salon on my way home from work. I was over my dry, brittle natural nails, so I was in the market to buy some new ones. LOL… sounds so funny, but it’s true. I wanted a brand new full set of nails – pink and white solar they call them. Sucker is probably what they called me. Another way to get my money is what I call them, so we all had names for each other.
I didn’t have an appointment, so the first available technician scurried over to perform my requested service. After 2 or 3 hours of sanding and shaping, painting and drying, I was finally set free. Sadly, I wasn’t super impressed with the results. They were nice, but I’ve seen nicer. I’ve HAD nicer. To me (even after all of my coaching) they were still too wide, too thick, too square-ish (not square the way I like them), not to mention too darn expensive.
Here’s the kicker… I walked away with TWO fingers wounded in the line of duty – one on each hand. The technician looked at me with pity. I believe I even smelled the scent of disdain, as if I was somewhat of a wuss whose fingers were too fragile for her abrasive (and carelessly wielded, I might add), emery board.
Fast forward a few weeks, and my new nails are in desperate need of some time, love and tenderness (especially tenderness). With my ring finger on my left hand and my poor little pinky on my right hand still protesting from their last salon visit, I knew there was no way I could take them to the same place. I decided to take my digits and my dollars elsewhere. But where?
One of my girlfriends had already patronized one of the neighborhood salons, so I thought I’d give them a try. A male tech, possibly the owner, greeted me as I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into the salon. I told him what I wanted, took a seat, we were off to the races.
About halfway through the process, my adversary – the dreaded emery board – made its first appearance. I know he was working on my fingers, but I promise you I think my toes and the rest of my body would have cut out of there if they could have left my little hands behind. Every muscle in my body seemed to contract in unison; my poor little fingers braced for what was expected to be more abuse.
I couldn’t take it. I politely stopped the man and told him, “Hey, I have not had a good experience with those, and I have the scars to prove it.” Like a little kid, I proceeded to point out my boo boos while sharing the sordid details of my last nail salon/technician experience. The gentleman listened patiently, still armed with emery board in hand and eager to complete the task at hand. After I finished pleading my case he looked at me and simply said, “Not me. That’s not me.” He quietly put his head down and continued to work.
This really made me think. How many times have I repeated the stories of wounds created and scars left by people from my past? How many times have I opted not to trust someone in my present because of a past experience? I can tell you. Plenty! Sure there’s a place for sharing your story, and past experiences do offer wisdom for future encounters. However, when those experiences prevent me from trusting others, building relationships can get a little tricky.
I have not one scar from my visit to the salon, and the price didn’t pinch either. Were my nails perfect? No. Can I see flaws? Sure, but nothing I can’t live with and probably things only visible to me. Still more nuggets of wisdom from my visit… That day I walked out with a two for one from the nail salon – my nails looked great, and I received a little life lesson on trust.
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