Everyone has a story
And everyone has a powerful role
By Sarah Kass
The other day, I went in for my usual manicure—with the same woman I always go to. As usual, I booked it last minute, squeezing it in between meetings. My plan was the same as always: choose the usual color, exchange the usual pleasantries about our kids and the weather, answer emails between coats, pay the usual amount, say the usual goodbyes, and get on with my day.
But this time was unusual.
My manicurist—let’s call her Michelle—had recently stopped working out of her apartment and moved into a small room at the back of a salon. I’d seen her there once before and was struck already then by how different she seemed. She used to work from a sunless room just off her toy-strewn living room, wearing sweats and watching Friends on a constant loop. Now, she felt like a different person—nicely dressed, sitting in a well-lit room, chatting easily with her new colleagues, even humming a tune as she painted my nails.
When I arrived this time, Michelle was blow-drying her own hair—freshly cut and colored, courtesy of the salon owner. I saw her glance at herself in the mirror before finishing, and it was clear she liked what she saw. Instead of the somber expression I’d grown used to, she was smiling.
As Michelle began working on my nails, I told her how happy I was to see her in this new space. She smiled as I mentioned all the changes I’d noticed—her appearance, her mood, her energy, even her smile. Yes, she said, the change has been doing me a world of good.
I don’t remember exactly how our conversation deepened—maybe I asked if it had been hard to make the move from working at home to this new space. Whatever the prompt, she began to share her story. A mother who had died when she was young. A husband who expected her to stay home, yet also demanded she earn more. A marriage she had tried—and failed—to leave.
She told me she was afraid he’d force her back to working from home. She held onto a quiet hope: that the little desk he was planning to buy for their daughter, to place in what used to be her workspace, was a sign he might be coming around.
I suggested she lean into the idea—celebrate the new desk, help her daughter decorate the space, make it feel intentional. She smiled at that. But her eyes said she wasn’t sure she could.
After I paid her, I hugged Michelle goodbye. As I walked out the door, she thanked me—not in the usual way, for the manicure, but for the experience I had given her. She had painted my nails, and I had helped paint her possibilities. I came in as the customer; I left feeling like the experience-maker.
The word hospitality comes from the Latin hospes—meaning guest, host, and one who entertains. Though the modern usage has lost the reciprocity embedded in the original, the truth remains. Hosts can also be guests, and entertainers can also be entertained—if we stay open to the generosity our guests have to offer.