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The nail polish colors they've provided went brandless. Blue, pink, red, white. Diana missed the fancy names they provided. Periwinkle Powder. Blush and Blood. Snow Way Out. "You've never had your nails painted?" Diana shakes the bottle of blue - Whale of a Time, if she recalls.
"I've had. Not professionally." Eva's nailbeds are chipped and jagged, snagging onto the custom blazer.
"It's okay! I'm no nail technician either." The blue gloops downward, and Diana collects excess where it gathers. “I’ve only really offered it to people who ask.” There’s a difference between nail care and manicures, but she’s without nail file or nipper. Just polish it is. “I don’t like practicing on dummies. The nail polish doesn't show up exactly as planned." If this doesn’t get Eva talking, then what will? “Hand, please?”
There's hesitation before Eva splays her hand on the counter. Upon closer inspection, her cuticles need fixing. Tempting fate by going to the pharmacy this late into the night wasn't worth the extra hassle. Neither was wasting polish on the table. "You sure?"
"Isn't it how it's done?"
She doesn't have placemats. Diana laughs before presenting her free hand palm up on the table. "Here, take my hand okay?"
Eva stares expectedly at her palm.
"I won't hurt you don't worry." She never would dream of. With how much the odds are against her - quite literally, in this case - a friendly presence is better than straight up ignoring altogether.
Like on command, Eva follows Diana's lead. Her palm is clammy, her thumb gripping onto Diana's palm like a lifeline. And Diana, she hums as she readies her brush. Precision at its finest. Whale of a Time lays down flat on Eva's pointer finger without a wasted drop.
Eva’s facing the vanity mirror. Like the second she faces at Diana, she'll be judged.
"I find it better if someone talks to me throughout the process," Diana urges. "It helps with the unease." The stories she gathered from hours upon hours she's spent commanding the makeup chair alone could, presumably, fill tombs.
Eva's protests are muffled, intelligible. Still not looking at her.
“Anything, really.” The blue applies well: Diana doesn’t need to apply another coat afterwards, just a top coat to contain it. “I’m all ears.”
Still nothing.
"I'm just concerned, that's all--"
“Your concern for me is unwarranted.” Eva's voice is nothing but weary, but at least she's speaking.
“Is it?” Diana looks up from her precision. Eva, biting so bluntly on her fingernails. If only she had a nail file on hand. “I just want everyone to get along. I care about you, you know." She should care, because no one deserves feeling this level of ridicule. Whatever pain she felt from her talent shouldn't be bottled up inside.
Eva doesn’t glance at her direction, only at the staring contest her mirror self provides.
“We can change the topic if you like. Let’s see...” Is there any interests they shared? Eva didn’t seem like someone that kept up with music nor interested in celebrities. Then again, Diana doesn’t like sharing those stories to begin with: they can follow her around if even one hint of their lives was dropped to the masses. She focuses on brushing the blue on the next finger, showing up without streaks. Matte finish, yet sparkled, like sunlight glimmering onto the water's surface. “What got you into being a mathlete to begin with?” Always a safe question. Keep it general, make them think for themselves.
“I didn’t.” The grit in Eva’s voice - Diana’s no dental expert, but she knows that’ll shave off and chip teeth in no time. “I was chosen. For being too smart for my own good.”
"That's not a bad thing, isn't it?" It's gift, right? Of course, Eva would be smart enough. Mathlete wasn't something that serious to scrub out from life. It's a monumental feat to be an expert on math: Diana's only completed up to geometry and chose not to pursue further.
Eva scoffs at her comment. "Then how were you chosen? As a cosmetologist?"
"I wouldn't say chosen" She practiced and practiced her skills, but that's recognition. Such an odd statement, to think talent is picked "And besides, this is about you." Her manicure, her story: it's leagues more interesting than Diana's.
The blue's overwhelming perfect; it matches the blue in Eva's eyes, so vibrant and obvious.
"This is stupid."
"You might think so. But I do like hearing other people's stories." It's one of the most rewarding parts of makeovers. This idea of telling this mini autobiography and - yes, reluctantly - a diatribe to a complete stranger that you trust with your appearance. Sharing yourself as you shed a little part of yourself away. Complete and utter faith. If only Eva could heed the message.
The silence is a quite thing as Diana continues to paint. It's only when she reaches the pinkie does Eva speak up again. "My high school saw the potential in me for being intelligent and curious. And I realized that was my worst quality. So I disowned it, but it keeps coming back to haunt me." Diana senses just how tight her words are, the continuing rumination of being more serious than she should be. "There, you happy?"
Diana clicks her tongue, and she can't make heads and tails of it. Spite and genuine trying always blurred the lines. "It's short. But at least it's your story." That’s worthy enough of a compliment, right? “You should be proud of it."
Just like her line of work. Whale of a Time - blue, marine blue, this awkward intersection of midnight and sea - dancing on Eva's fingertips.
Perhaps french tips are in order.
Ingrid flexes her hand upon instinct the moment she's ungloved. Can't let nail polish taint the leather any more than rust had. "I'm reckonin' it'll just rub off." A nervous titter escapes her, just as melodic as the rest of her. A certain charm underneath layers of strong will.
"Nothing a little top coat can hold." It's sand colored - Earth, Wind, and Fire, she vaguely remembers - as Diana wastes no time applying it. Ingrid's hands tense above hers. They’re both unsurprisingly calloused yet shockingly soft to the touch. Was it the gloves that protected them?
"Is it really necessary?” The polish blends, impossibly similar to Ingrid’s nail.
“It’s fun, though, right? Not everything needs a reason.” Her brushstrokes are dainty, almost comedically thin. Diana’s thumb traces the veins from Ingrid’s hand. Signs of overwork. She could teach her how to exfoliate so not to let chemicals seep through cracking skin.
Ingrid, she eagerly nods at the assertion. "Just nothing fancy, alright? I'm ain't one for something sparkly."
Which is fine by Diana. Thin resources, even thinner supplies. She's just content that this was a possibility to begin with. There's a tremor when she creates a brushstroke, painting to the edge of Ingrid's paronychium. "It's okay to be nervous."
"Am I?" The grin's timid, and Ingrid presses her free hand to her face, almost bashful. "'m sorry, this is all so new to me.”
It's oddly endearing in this light, but from a professional standpoint, Diana didn't want to waste cotton swabs and alcohol for tiny mistakes. "Oh! You haven't had a manicure?"
"I ain't never had time for something like that. My siblin's tried scheduling a trip to the salon on my birthday, then one thing leads to another and... oh, I'm borin' you with this story, ain't I?"
“Of course not! I like hearing others talk about themselves.” Upon closer inspection, Earth, Wind, and Fire looks dissimilar to nails. It reminds Diana more of the dusty pink in Ingrid’s hair than anything. Or maybe it's more akin to how her face flushes in bashful intent. “Your siblings seem very nice to do something like that.”
“They’ve helped me with so much with running the family business. Mabel handles all the paperwork --”
“Oh, really?” The color, however, is streaky. Two coats it is, Diana decides, before moving onto the next finger and letting in dry."
“--and Eustace, he’s great with customer service--”
“Is that so?” The shaking subsides. Diana ponders over if a design would be worth it. It be great practice, but knowing Ingrid, it just be a waste.
“--but I'm the one who mainly does the dirty work! I'm the face of the business, after all."
"That's impressive." A repeating pattern, like wallpaper in fancy suites. No, that's too elaborate. Perhaps something simpler? Just a simple smiley dot on each fingernail? Is it even worth it at this point?
"Althought sometimes I do wish I could shimmy some of my free time for something as fancy as this ..." A sigh. “I reckon you have a lot of time on your hands?”
“Me? I’m kind of busy all the time, myself.” It’s applications and appointment after appointment and who could forget keeping up with her friends and all the things they've wanted to do? No real in-between where she could take a breather. Not like now. "I wish I had the free time to do everything I want to do. Don't you?"
"But there's always something to do, though. Always something to mend, always something to organize and to tidy up..." With her free hand, Ingrid holds her forehead up. "I'd reckon I'd need a week's vacation, but I keep pushin' it back."
"Can't you make time, though?" The pink doesn't shine as much. Maybe Diana should go for the elaborate design. "What do you think?" Without prelude to the question, she realizes, but dissatisfaction means hassle removing the polish means rethinking the design to what best suits her. Time wasted, resources wasted - that wouldn't be fair for Ingrid.
Ingrid looks down at her, and the broad smile she kept up lessens for a split second before resetting. "Sorry, sweetie, I didn't hear you the first time."
"The nails. Do you want anything else on them?" Patient, Diana scans Ingrid's face as she thinks, one hand on her chin while Diana grips on Ingrid's free hand.
The pink, it blends in the more Diana examines it.
Did she wreck a nerve, with her being distracted that way? Ingrid seems so open and generous. Imagining Ingrid as anything but genuine isn't even a thought in Diana's mind, but she's already double checking. Perhaps that's what she has to do, but she always thinks in the back of her mind that it isn't that serious or damaging. Exactly as shown.
It's not going to be the same, right? This secret of wanting to leave and do something, so prevalent with everyone else.
The seconds past in glacial speed before Ingrid speaks up again, her face lights up with pure energy. "Ah... what the hey. Surprise me!" That same broad smile again, the one that Diana couldn't look too closely at, lest she go blind.
Repeated. Elaborate. Smiley face. Yeah, she can work with that. "You're gonna love it, don't worry!"
It won't be the same. It'll be something new, as Diana reaches for another brandless bottle.
Slate Gray, she remembers. But it looks so washed up in comparison.