The best of two cultures

The soft pink of my nail polish matches the gentleness of the Vietnamese women at my nail shop. A few years ago, I decided I wanted nicer hands. I was drawn to the lighted sign that said "Walk-Ins Welcome."

"Can we help you today?" inquired a small Asian woman watching the Weather Channel on a TV overhead.

"Just a manicure," I answered shyly.

"Oh, you want acrylics," she said, encouragingly, looking at my hands.

I nodded like an adolescent going along with the crowd. She guided me to a small table with all the little bottles my daughter would have wanted for her very own.

As she placed her white mask on, my anxiety grew. She applied the strong-smelling glue, followed by the acrylic. Then she used the drill for filing, which loudly sent pieces of plastic into the air. We hadn't gotten to the polish, and I felt exhausted.

"Best to get your keys and pay me first before polish," she instructed.

Soon I sat at the drying table, holding my hands just so to avoid the slightest smudge. Because I was an amateur, I tried to reach for my car keys too early. She patiently guided me back to her table and reapplied the light pink to my thumbs.

I was afraid she would want to change the sign to "Walk-Ins Welcome, Experience Preferred."

I left the shop thanking her, apologizing, and staring at my new-looking hands.

I now return every few weeks, opting for a simple manicure these days.

My relationship with Van and her family has grown closer over the years. We share stories and secrets and like to laugh. I hand them fresh-baked cookies and coffeecake. They massage my hands with soft cream.

One snowy Friday afternoon, I mentioned to Van that I was entering an annual baking contest that raises money for charity.

"Oh, I'd like to learn to make cookies like you," she said, as she instructed me to wash my hands before the polish.

I liked the idea of helping her wish come true, but it would be a recipe exchange across cultures and therefore a little challenging.

There is nothing comparable in Vietnamese to English teaspoons and tablespoons. Fractions would be difficult in a new language. I tried to explain about cookie sheets, describing them as flat pans with no sides.

But it wasn't just equipment. Vanilla, chocolate chips, white flour, and sugar were not to be found in Van's kitchen cupboard.

I thought we could go together to the baking aisle at the supermarket. But our plans changed when three teenagers arrived at the shop asking for "just a fill – and French manicures."

I'm always surprised by the hours Van and her family keep in the shop. "Oh, no," she said when I commented. "This easy; the fields in Vietnam hard and no money."

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