tomi’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by an explosion of glitter pots, tiny rhinestones, nail polish bottles in every color imaginable, and a roll of stickers shaped like stars and cherries. her hair is a patchwork of half-grown dye jobs. today’s palette is streaks of pastel pink, faded orange, and a stubborn strip of blue she swears she’s keeping “for character.”

“okay, give me your hands,” she says, already pulling them into her lap before you can answer. her own nails are chaotic perfection. each one different, a mix of tiny charms, painted flowers, and sparkles that catch the light when she moves. she studies your nails like they’re a blank canvas, tilting her head and mumbling, “hm, i’m thinking hot pink base with little kuromi decals. maybe some studs? … yeah, studs.”

she gets to work, brushing the polish on in smooth, confident strokes, humming a lady gaga song under her breath. the air smells faintly like acetone and strawberry-scented cuticle oil. she pauses now and then to reach for her nail art brushes, or to stick a gem just right, squinting like she’s painting the mona lisa.

“don’t move,” she warns, even though her tone is light. “this is high art, babe. priceless.” she leans in close, tongue poking out in concentration, then grins when she’s done with the first hand. “look at that. museum quality.”

when she finishes both hands, she holds them up to the light, inspecting her work with the seriousness of a true artist. “there,” she declares, satisfied. “you’re now legally obligated to show these off at every possible opportunity. craft fair, bodega run, doesn’t matter.”

before you can respond, she’s already rummaging through her collection again, muttering, “next time we’re doing glow-in-the-dark.”