She stepped on the escalator, scanning her grocery list in her mind, trying to figure out if she’d missed listing anything important. Lost in a wave of thoughts, her eyes fell on the woman behind her. She was dressed in a crisp blue suit, her hair prepped and beautifully set, her curls falling softly on her shoulders. She looked at her slender hand, holding the sides artistically. Her nails looked stunning, nicely shaped, manicured and neat. Suddenly, she looked at her own. Unevenly chipped nails, with stains of green peeking from underneath. The veggies’ sap must have seeped in, she thought. She quickly slid them under her dupatta. She was embarrassed; she could feel her cheeks flush hot, she could feel them turning into a shade of crimson.
She never grew nails, for she wouldn’t be able to knead the dough for rotis. She couldn’t pamper herself to manicures; not because she couldn’t afford one, but because she couldn’t maintain them. Everytime she chopped veggies, the knife would come threateningly close to ruining it.
Suddenly, she felt something. No, she didn’t feel sorry. She felt good. Her half-chipped nails, her flour stained t-shirts, her hair tied into an unkempt bun -- they were all worth the smiles and the burps that her culinary experiments resulted in. She didn’t need manicures to pamper herself; the empty plates and satisfied smiles nailed it for her!
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