I'm getting a pedicure today - the first in many months. I usually bring a book to read or play with my phone as the nail lady chats in Vietnamese with the other ladies. Sometimes we chat, but mostly not.
Today, however, I decided to people watch.
One lady gets up from the pedicure side and a nail lady helps her to the manicure station. The woman starts dancing loudly and spinning the nail lady, who looks uncomfortable. The woman is older, very loud, and is odd. Everyone stares until her friend tells those of us nearby her story - she watched her father get killed in a motorcycle accident 6 months ago and is currently heavily medicated for depression. Her medication makes her act crazy, but it's better than the depression. Except when she left, she started screaming at strangers and caused quite a scene. I hope her friend takes care of her.
Two chairs over, a heavily tattooed man helps his pregnant girlfriend (or wife) into a chair. He looks quite respectable - but the tattoos on his neck and arm show a story. Gang or previous gang activity? Or perhaps he is an artist himself. I want to ask him - I'm always curious about people's tattoos. I don't though.
On the television, a show about fried chicken comes on. I don't have many regrets, but I do wish I asked my mom to teach me how to fry chicken. I could easily figure out myself, but my mother probably used my grandmother's recipe. I'm glad she showed me how to make gumbo, but I do miss her fried chicken. She didn't make much as she grew older - she mostly made it for my boyfriends. It was her way of welcoming them, for frying chicken took time. I gave her a new pan for frying chicken for her last Christmas (she asked for it), but she grew sick right after. She never used the frying pan. I have it now. Maybe soon I'll make fried chicken in her honor in that pan. It'll have to be someone else's recipe, though. That makes me sad.
Everyone has a story.
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