A strange thing happened. Mrs. Abernathy began to cry. Not the polite, diamond-dabbing tears of the salon. Real, ugly, heaving sobs. She told Bridgette about her son who never called. About the loneliness of a king-size bed. About the fear that she had outlived her own usefulness.
She painted the cracked nail. One coat. Two coats. It was clumsy, her hand trembling. Then she looked at the other nine. Before she could talk herself out of it, she painted them all. bridgette b scott nails
And every time a new client sat down, anxious and afraid, and asked in a small voice, “Can I try something… different?” Bridgette would smile, extend her own hands, and say, “Darling. I’ve been different for weeks. It’s the only thing that fits.” A strange thing happened
She reached for black.