But if I ever write a book, it’s going to be called Confessions of a Nail Technician: How I Survived the Madness (and the Moms of Texas)

Let me tell you, Texas housewives are a breed of their own. They’re like regular housewives, but with bigger hair, bigger personalities, and an uncanny ability to turn every nail appointment into a therapy session. And honey, I’m not a licensed therapist, but I play one in the nail salon.

Exhibit A: Becky and the Great Glitter Disaster

Becky is one of my regulars. She’s the kind of woman who wears cowboy boots to a pedicure and insists on having her nails match her “aesthetic,” which is basically just the color of her SUV. Last week, she came in with her two kids, who were hyped up on sugar from Whataburger.

“Monique,” she says, plopping down in my chair, “I need something fierce. Something that says, ‘I run this household, and I’m not afraid to use a wooden spoon.’”

I nod, because I’ve learned not to argue with Texas moms. They will end you with a single look. So, I pull out a swatch book and suggest a bold red called “Lone Star Lover.”

What makes my job easier 😉

Becky’s eyes light up. “Yes! That’s perfect. It’s exactly what I need after the week I’ve had.”

As I start painting her nails, Becky starts venting. “You wouldn’t believe what happened yesterday. I caught my kid drawing on the walls with a Sharpie. And not just any walls—the new walls. The ones we just painted after the last time he did it.”

I nod sympathetically, but I’m also keeping one eye on her son, who’s currently trying to balance a bottle of glitter polish on his head.

“Becky,” I say, trying to sound calm, “maybe you should keep an eye on little Timmy.”

Becky waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, he’s fine. He’s just being creative.”

Famous last words. Two seconds later, Timmy knocks over the glitter polish, and suddenly my salon looks like a unicorn threw up in it. Glitter is everywhere—on the floor, on the chairs, on me.

Becky gasps. “Timmy! What did I tell you about touching things?”

Timmy, who’s now covered in glitter, just grins and says, “But Mama, I’m a sparkly cowboy!”

What makes my job easier 😉

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I just start scooping glitter off the floor with a dustpan. Becky apologizes profusely and offers to pay for the damage, but I know she’ll be back next week with another glitter-related disaster.

Exhibit B: Karen and the Great Tupperware War

Then there’s Karen. Karen is the kind of client who always has a new drama in her life. Last week, it was her neighbor’s dog digging up her flower beds. This week, it’s her sister-in-law stealing her Tupperware.

“Monique,” she says, as I’m buffing her nails, “you wouldn’t believe what she did. She took my good Tupperware—the ones with the snap lids—and didn’t even return them. And when I asked her about it, she had the nerve to say, ‘Oh, I thought you didn’t need them anymore.’”

What makes my job easier 😉

I nod along, because what else can I do? Karen’s nails are short and practical, but her stories are anything but.

“So, what did you do?” I ask, applying a coat of clear polish.

Karen smirks. “I went to her house and took them back. And I may have accidentally taken a few of hers too. You know, as collateral.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Karen, you’re a genius.”

She shrugs. “It’s the Texas way, honey. You mess with my Tupperware, you mess with me.”

Exhibit C: Susan and the Divorce Nails

And then there’s Susan. Susan is the kind of client who always has a new crisis. Last month, it was her husband forgetting their anniversary. This month, it’s her husband forgetting he’s married.

What makes my job easier 😉

“Monique,” she says, as I’m filing her nails, “I need something bold. Something that says, ‘I’m single, and I’m ready to mingle.’”

I raise an eyebrow. “Susan, last week you asked for French tips because you said they were ‘classy.’ What happened?”

Susan sighs. “I caught him texting his ex. So, I need something that says, ‘I’m not just a housewife. I’m a catch.’”

I pull out a swatch book and show her a bright pink called “Dallas Diva.”

Susan’s eyes light up. “Yes! That’s perfect. It’s exactly what I need.”

As I start painting her nails, Susan starts venting. “I mean, who does he think he is? I’m at home, taking care of the kids, cleaning the house, and he’s off texting his ex? It’s disrespectful.”

I nod along, but I’m also mentally preparing myself for the inevitable meltdown when Susan realizes she can’t open her car door with wet nails.By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. My back hurts, my hands are stained with polish, and I’ve heard enough drama to fill a season of Real Housewives of Dallas. But as I lock up the salon and head home, I can’t help but smile. Despite the madness, I love my job. I love the artistry, the creativity, and yes, even the drama.

What makes my job easier 😉

So, if I ever write a book, it’s going to be called Confessions of a Nail Technician: How I Survived the Madness (and the Moms of Texas). Because that’s exactly what it is—madness. But it’s my madness, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Well, maybe for a lifetime supply of glitter-free polish.

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