I wanted to make myself pretty

trim away the unwanted edges.

Mother paid for me to go to a fancy salon

The kind real rich ladies frequent.

As I walked in, my heels became unsteady.

Not because I am a stranger to these convenient luxuries.

But because I look like a woman but feel like a kid

After overly polite conversation and jokes, I managed to trim the silence clean off.

A pair of women ripped my facial hair with two fine threads each. I couldn't help but cry.

My eyebrows were next. The owner suggested I get henna done.

At first, I thought she'd offered it for free.

Why wouldn't I? I've gotten most things at that rate.

The reality was plain when I realized real rich ladies could pay for an extra treat on a whim.

They didn't wait for their mom to transfer more funds.

The pedicure was last.

An older, more polite, more humble woman did it

I liked her best.

She cracked a few jokes.

Maybe she also feels the need to fill the void.

I got regular nail posh instead of the standard gel. I felt bad asking Mom for more. I'm not comfortable asking for more.

After she finished, I told her I would stay until the polish dried. How vintage.

Alone in liminality, I sat.

Like the last kid to get picked up from a party.

An unexpected guest. An outstayed welcome without a role to play.

With busied hands, I dug a coffee-stained book from the depths of my bag. My mind not on the page but on the real rich ladies continuing their treatment. I adopted their gaze to look back at myself.

Alone and awkward.

A shimmer of guilt set in

Carefully, I put on my open-toed shoes

One toenail smudged.

The off-white floor contrasted against my clogged blood-colored nails. My dainty perfection didn't last 20 minutes.