I went in for a manicure and somehow became part of their family

The first time the salon owner asked me to spend the night with her entire staff, I thought I had misunderstood her.

I was their customer, not their coworker.

But by midnight, I was sitting on a hotel-room floor eating Vietnamese food with six nail techs while everyone argued over who snored the loudest.

My name is Joanne. I am a 43-year-old American woman living in Portland, Oregon.

I started going to the same nail salon more than ten years ago.

Back then, I only wanted a simple manicure before a work event. I chose the salon because it was close to my house and had good reviews.

I did not expect to keep going there for a decade.

The owner, Kim, greeted me during my first visit. Most of the workers were Vietnamese, and I could not understand what they said to each other.

They talked quickly, laughed loudly, and sometimes pointed at something across the salon.

At first, I worried they might be talking about me.

I think many customers have that feeling when they hear another language around them.

Then one of the nail techs noticed me looking nervous.

She explained that everyone was laughing because Kim had arrived at work wearing two different shoes.

Kim lifted both feet to show me.

One shoe was black and the other was dark blue.

I started laughing with them, and after that, I felt comfortable.

I began returning every two or three weeks.

The workers remembered my usual color, how short I liked my nails, and that I hated having the bottoms of my feet touched during a pedicure.

They also remembered things I had forgotten telling them.

They asked about my mother after her surgery.

They remembered when I changed jobs.

They knew when my relationship ended because I came in one Saturday with swollen eyes and asked for the brightest red polish they had.

Over the years, I watched workers come and go, but a small group stayed together.

There was Kim, the owner.

There was Tina, who talked nonstop but could finish a perfect full set faster than anyone.

There was Lan, who looked serious until she laughed, and then the whole salon heard her.

There was Mimi, who brought enough food for everyone even when nobody asked.

There was also Nancy, who always asked me about American words she heard from customers.

They called me their white Vietnamese sister.

I knew they were joking, but part of me liked it.

Our friendship slowly moved outside the salon.

At first, they invited me to lunch after closing.

Then they invited me to birthday dinners, karaoke nights, and weekend trips.

Sometimes we rented a house near the Oregon coast and stayed overnight.

Other times, everyone came to my house.

We would eat, play cards, watch terrible movies, and talk until two or three in the morning.

If people drank too much or became too tired to drive, they slept wherever they could.

My guest room filled up first.

Then someone took the couch.

The rest brought blankets and slept on the floor.

The next morning, my kitchen looked like a Vietnamese restaurant had exploded inside it.

There were bowls, herbs, sauces, rice cookers, and containers everywhere.

They always cleaned everything before leaving.

For years, I thought they invited many customers to these gatherings.

The salon was friendly, and several customers had been going there as long as I had.

I assumed I was only one person in a large group.

Then something happened during a weekend trip that made me realize I was wrong.

We had rented a cabin outside Portland for Kim’s birthday.

Everyone arrived with food, blankets, and more alcohol than we needed.

Late that night, while the others were downstairs, I went upstairs looking for my phone charger.

I passed one of the bedrooms and heard Kim and Tina talking.

They were discussing whether they should finally tell me something.

I stopped walking.

I knew I should not listen, but hearing my name made me nervous.

For a few seconds, I wondered whether I had done something wrong.

Maybe I had offended someone.

Maybe they were tired of inviting me.

Maybe all those years of friendship had meant something different to them than it had to me.

I quietly returned downstairs and acted normal, but my stomach felt tight.

The next morning, everyone behaved strangely.

They kept checking their phones and whispering in Vietnamese.

When I entered the kitchen, they suddenly stopped talking.

That old feeling returned.

For the first time in years, I wondered whether they were talking about me.

After breakfast, Kim asked me to sit in the living room.

Everyone stood around me.

I honestly thought they were about to tell me I could no longer join their private gatherings.

Then Tina carried out a large photo album.

On the front was my name and the number ten.

They had saved pictures from my ten years with the salon.

There was a photo from my first holiday dinner with them.

There was one of me sleeping on my couch while three nail techs drew tiny mustaches on my face with eyeliner.

There were beach pictures, birthday pictures, salon pictures, and photos from the night I cried after my breakup.

One page had pictures of my hands from different years.

My nails had changed, but many of the same women were holding my fingers in every photo.

Kim told me they had been planning the album for months.

That was what I had overheard upstairs.

Then she gave me a small envelope.

Inside was a handwritten card signed by every worker.

They thanked me for supporting the salon for ten years, but most of the card was not about money or appointments.

They wrote that I had treated them like friends instead of people who only worked on my hands and feet.

They remembered that I invited one worker to my house for Thanksgiving when her family was in Vietnam.

They remembered that I drove Kim home after she became sick at work.

They remembered that I helped Nancy practice for her citizenship interview.

I had forgotten many of those things.

To me, they were just normal things friends did.

I started crying before I finished reading the card.

Then Kim began crying.

Within a minute, almost everyone was crying except Lan, who kept handing out tissues while pretending she had something in her eye.

That was when they finally told me something I had never known.

They did not invite other customers on their overnight trips.

It was only me.

For years, I thought I was the customer who had somehow been allowed into their group.

They thought of me as family.

Later that afternoon, we took another group picture outside the cabin.

Everyone looked tired because we had stayed up too late.

Our hair was messy, nobody was dressed nicely, and Kim was still wearing the same sweatshirt she had slept in.

It is my favorite picture of us.

I still visit the salon every few weeks.

Sometimes new customers look worried when the workers start laughing in Vietnamese.

I understand that feeling because I once felt it too.

Now Kim usually points toward me and explains that they are making fun of somebody’s cooking, somebody’s husband, or somebody arriving in two different shoes again.

I went into that salon more than ten years ago expecting to stay for an hour.

I never expected those women to know my family, sleep on my living-room floor, or become the people I call when something good or terrible happens.

My nails usually last about three weeks.

Somehow, the friendships lasted much longer.