Summer Needs No Help Exclaiming: "Hot Pink!"

"You’re a helper, aren’t you?” she asked softly. 
I chuckled. “Am I helping too much?”
“I can tell by your hands,” she replied, as she brushed on the second coat of clear.

My trip to Memphis included a manicure at Gould’s on Germantown Parkway, a Christmas gift card bonus from Colby Kennedy.

To amplify, Ms Mary was noticing how I anticipated her next move, had internalized her routine, and moved my hands, fingers to ease her ministrations.
                   “Some ladies,” she noted, “are limp noodles; their hands don’t move in any way.  You have to be encouraged to relax, even your fingers,” and she gently flexed my ring finger so it would curl, not be held at little soldier attention.
                         "You’ve got me pegged,” I responded, shaking my head with a slight smile, recalling how my shoulders used to gang up around my ears while I was working.  She has not seen tense.  This is a good day, I nodded to myself.
                            Her touch was gentle and cool as she continued her work, glamorizing my nails with the French manicure.
                            As thoroughly as I enjoy the hand, wrist, and lower arm massage, it ended much too quickly. That treat is almost as relaxing as silently swooning while the kind beautician combs through my freshly shampooed hair with her fingertips, as long as she recognizes, “I’m tender-headed.”
                         Our hands, our finger-tips, and our mannerisms tell our tale, which is why I’m considering the purchase of glittery stars and tiny flowers to adorn my pearly white fingertips begging to be heard over my toe nails as they shout, “Hot Pink!”