Joy Doesn’t Often Use The Front Door

I didn’t expect to be beguiled. After all, it was barely 10 AM on a hectic Saturday morning filled with errands, but how could I ignore it?

He had to be almost forty. Lean and tan with the legs of a cyclist showing off under a pair of baggie, beige khakis. The flip-flops and Ray Ban’s attempted to shave a decade off that number but with more salt than pepper in his purposely disheveled bedhead…yeah, I’d have to say he was close to forty.

She was eleven.

I know this because I LOVE eleven-year-old girls! They are one of my favorite things on the planet—and she told me. But that came later.

They walked into the bustling nail salon holding hands, both wearing grins like of a pair of Cheshire cats as they finished a giggle that I presume had started in the car. They tried to put an end to it prematurely like you do an ice cream cone in an establishment that doesn’t allow food, but just like it does, the giggle melted and ran between her fingers as she attempted to stifle it with her hand.

Joy doesn’t often enter a building using the front door. It’s like…an anomaly.

Every head turned and we all stared because well—joy had replaced all of the oxygen.

“Can she get a mani-pedi?” He asked like a pro, his hand resting gently on top of her head.

“Sure, have her pick a color,” one of the women closest to the door replied.

Everyone else went back to their respective daydreams. Me? I was enchanted.

As the manicurist ran the water for her pedicure, our little eleven-year-old skip/bounced over to the wall where hundreds of bottles of polish are displayed. I watched her eyes scan all of the various colors like I used to discerningly pick from my giant box of Crayola crayons (the one with the built-in sharpener in the back).

He stood behind her, absentmindedly playing with her long brown hair as she showed him the colors under consideration, weighing in on each one.

“I don’t like that pink as much as the first one,” he said, and “Why don’t you save the neon orange for the summer?” Were a couple of the opinions he offered. He was thoughtful and PRESENT.

Clearly, he adored her.

Once she’d made that huge decision, (and we can all agree right here at the gravity of this right of passage, seeing that the wrong nail color can ruin your life, even if it’s only for a week or until you get home and take it off yourself, wasting $25 and a precious hour of time you can never get back) she plopped into the big chair and made herself comfortable.

I watched him adjust the seat for her, moving it forward so her skinny little legs could reach the roiling blue water of the built-in foot soaking tub.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said, feeling secure that the twenty or so women in the joint would look after his little girl. “I’m going right next door to CVS.” We all shook our collective heads, silently agreeing that it was okay to leave her, but only for a little while. She grabbed onto his fingers as his hand brushed her cheek. “Are we sure about the blue?” she asked him. She seemed to want him to stay longer.

He nodded and walked slowly toward the door, her eyes following his every step. “Daddy!” she yelled above the steady buzz of nail salon gossip, he swung around, “Bring me something?” They both made a fist bump followed by a high five kind of special hand gesture.

Oh, that’s where it starts, I thought.

Fifteen minutes later he returned with a bag of stuff out of which he pulled an Abba Zabba. And even though I thought it impossible—this old-school choice of treat endeared him to me even more.

I fucking LOVE Abba Zabbas.
And Eleven-year-old girls with their dads.
I love blue toenails.
And mani-pedi joy.
And being unexpectedly beguiled on a Saturday morning.

He came back inside after going out to use his cell phone as I was gathering my stuff to leave. He must have called his wife to ask her how much to tip because I saw him fold up a few bills and tuck them into the pocket of his daughter’s jean jacket.

“How old are you?” I asked as I walked by. “I’m eleven,” she replied cheerfully as she worked on her Abba Zabba. “You guys sure are sweet, “ I said, motioning toward her dad. Her face lit up with a big, nougat and peanut butter grin, “We sure are!” she replied without a self-conscious bone in her body.

Just imagine, I thought, with a father like this, what kind of woman this girl will grow up to become.

That thought and their joy stuck with me all day.

Carry on,
xox