Another month passed. I worked at the salon on weekends, answering the phone, making appointments, helping the workers, keeping the stations clean, sweeping the floors, and bringing drinks to the clients. The workers were happy, saying I was helpful and reliable.
Anna was happy too. She said I was doing a good job, the clients liked me, and I made the shop run better.
But I was not happy, nor was I unhappy. I was just there, going through the motions. I had no purpose, no goal, no future.
One night, Anna came home late looking tired. She sat down at the table, and I served her dinner. After eating in silence, she finally spoke. She said, Liam, I want to talk to you about something. I sat down and replied, okay. She told me she had been thinking about me, about my situation, about my future. I nodded without a word.
She pointed out that I was not finding a job, I had been looking for months, no one was hiring, the economy was bad and might stay bad for a long time. I knew that.
Then she said she had an idea, a different idea, not what I expected, but one that could work. I asked what it was. She suggested I could go to beauty school, learn to be a hairdresser, get a license, work at the salon, and have a real career. I looked at her, not knowing what to say. Beauty school?
Hairdresser? That was not a job for a man, that was a woman’s job, and not what I wanted. I told her I was a man and could not be a hairdresser. She asked why not, saying there were many male hairdressers and that women liked them because they thought they had better taste and were more stylish.
I protested that I knew nothing about hair or beauty, that I was not that kind of person. She reassured me I could learn, that school would teach me. It would take one year, maybe less, then I would get a license and have a real job, a career.
I thought about it. She was right. I had no other options, no job, no prospects, nothing to do with my life. I told her I did not want to do it. She told me to just think about it, I did not have to decide now, just think for a week and then tell her my answer. I said nothing. I finished my dinner, cleaned the dishes, went to the living room, and sat on the couch, thinking about her idea.
Beauty school. Hairdresser. That was not me. I was a banker, a manager. I made decisions, I led people. I had a career, a future. But that future was gone. The bank was gone, my career was gone. I had nothing, I was nothing.
I thought about the salon, the clients, the workers. They were happy. They had jobs, purpose, money, a future. I had none of those things. I thought about Anna. She had a business, money, a future. She was successful. I was not. I was a burden, a failure. I did not want to be a burden or a failure. I wanted to have a purpose, a future, to be useful. But did I want to be a hairdresser? No. That was not what I wanted or dreamed of.
I went to bed and lay in the dark, thinking about the options. I had two choices. I could stay home, do nothing, and be a burden. Or I could go to school, learn a new skill, have a job, and be useful. Neither option was good, but one was better than the other.
The next week passed. I worked at the salon, answering the phone, helping the clients, watching the workers. They cut hair, colored hair, styled hair. They talked to the clients, made them happy, made them feel good. They had skills, purpose, jobs. I watched them with envy. I wanted to have purpose, a job, to be useful.
On Saturday night, Anna asked if I had thought about it. I told her I had. She wanted to know my decision. I paused, took a breath, and said I would do it, I would go to beauty school.
Anna smiled and gave me a hug, saying it was wonderful! I would not regret it, I would learn a new skill, have a new career, a future. I nodded and said nothing. I did not feel wonderful. I felt scared, uncertain, like I was making a mistake. But I did not change my mind or say no. I just accepted it, accepted the new path and the new future.
The next Monday, Anna took me to the school. It was a small building with a sign on the door that read The Beauty Academy. We walked inside. The place smelled of chemicals, hair products, and women.
A woman at the front desk greeted us with a big smile and showed us around: the classrooms, the salon area, the stations, the supplies. She told us it was a good school with a good program and good teachers. Most students passed the state exam, got their licenses, and got jobs. Anna said that was exactly what we wanted, we wanted me to get a license and a job.
The woman said she could start me in the next class, beginning April first, two weeks from now.
Anna said perfect and told her to sign me up. I stood there silently, just watching as Anna paid the tuition, signed the forms, and made the arrangements. I was enrolled, going to beauty school.
We left the building. Anna was happy, holding my hand and smiling. She said I was going to do great, she knew it, because I was smart, careful, a hard worker, and would be a good hairdresser. I did not say anything. I just walked to the car, got in, and sat in silence. Anna drove home, talking about the school, the classes, the future. I listened but did not talk.
That night, I could not sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the school, the classes, and the other students. They would be mostly women; I would be one of the few men, out of place, strange. I did not want to be strange or out of place. I wanted to be normal, a man with a man’s job and a man’s life. But that life was gone, over. I had a new life now, a new path, a new future. I had not chosen it, but I accepted it.
The next two weeks passed. I worked at the salon, answering phones, helping clients, watching the workers. I studied the supplies, trying to learn the names of products and tools, trying to get ready for school. Anna helped me, showing me the tools and products, explaining services and procedures, teaching me what she could.
She said it was not that hard, I would learn quickly because I was smart and could do this. I nodded and said nothing, just listened, watched, and tried to learn.
April first came, the first day of school. I woke up early, showered, dressed, and ate breakfast. Anna was already at work, so I was alone. I drove to the school, parked in the lot, and sat in the car, looking at the building. I felt nervous, scared, like I was making a mistake. I got out, walked to the building, opened the door, and went inside. The building was clean and bright, but it smelled of chemicals and women.
I walked to the classroom and opened the door. Inside were fifteen students: twelve women and two men. I was one of the men. The other man was named Howard. He was different, not like other men.
He spoke in a high voice, moved his hands a lot, and was friendly with the women but not with me. I sat in an empty seat and looked around. The women were young, pretty, dressed nicely, wearing makeup and styled hair. They looked like they belonged. I did not.
A teacher walked in. She was older, in her forties, with short hair and a stern face. She introduced herself as Ms. Delaney, our instructor. She told us we would learn many things, work hard, and get our licenses.
She handed out forms, books, and lists of supplies, telling us to buy our own tools, bring them to class, never borrow or lend them, and always be professional. She said this was a serious profession, dealing with people’s appearance, confidence, and trust, so we must be professional, careful, and clean. We listened and nodded.
Then she announced that today we would learn about nails—how to file them, care for cuticles, and apply polish. She called it the first and easiest step, but also the most important, something we must learn well. She showed us the tools: files, clippers, buffers, and polishes, demonstrating how to use them. Then she paired us up. I was paired with a young woman named Maria.
She was Hispanic, about eighteen years old, and very nice. She smiled at me and said hello. I introduced myself. She said it was fun, she had always wanted to do nails because her mother was a nail technician and had taught her a little. I admitted I knew nothing. She reassured me I would learn, it was not hard.
Ms. Delaney showed us how to file nails, shape them, care for cuticles, and apply polish. Then she told us to practice on one finger of each hand: file the nail, trim the cuticle, apply the polish, taking our time and being careful. Maria went first on my hand. She was quick, careful, and gentle. She filed my nail, trimmed my cuticle, and applied the polish in about five minutes. It looked nice. Then it was my turn.
I took her hand, picked up the file, and looked at her nail, unsure what to do. I filed slowly and gently, trying to make the shape right. It was not perfect or even, but it was okay. I used the clippers to trim her cuticle carefully, without cutting her. Then I applied the polish: a base coat, two thin coats of color, and a top coat. It was not perfect, but it was okay.
Ms. Delaney walked over, looked at my work, and said not bad, telling me to keep practicing and I would improve. I nodded, feeling relieved I had not failed or embarrassed myself. Maria gave me a happy look and said I did fine, that I was a natural! I did not feel like a natural.
I felt like an amateur, a pretender, someone who did not belong. But I kept going, kept practicing, kept learning. I did not stop or quit, I just kept going.
The day ended. I packed my things, walked to the car, and drove home. Anna was already home and asked about my day. I said it was okay, we learned about nails. She asked if I liked it, and I said I did not know, it was okay, not bad. She told me one day at a time, I would get used to it.
I nodded, ate dinner, watched television, went to bed, and lay in the dark, thinking about the school, the nails, the polish, the future. I did not know what the future held or if I would succeed or like it. I just knew I had to try, had to keep going. I had no other choice.