“Nonsense,” Maman smiled. “Now, about Layla, make
sure you take off at least two inches. We must get rid of those dry
ends.”
“Of course,” Salma said.
Maman patted my hand. “I’ll see you at home,
azizam. Remember, pink nails.”
She was a woman obsessed.
My hair was trimmed and blow-dried until it shone like
black silk, and Gita came to do my nails. She sat down on a stool beside me,
took my hands in hers and clicked her tongue. “Layla, azizam, each
time I see you I say put cream on, rub oil into your cuticles, wear gloves
– but you don’t listen. And now look, your hands are chapped and your
nails are dry.”
“Sorry, Gita. I’m hopeless.”
She smiled. “Never mind, they’ll look like new by
the time I’m finished.”
I watched her deftly shape my nails, wielding the little
file like a
