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They were immaculate.

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I went into my sixty-eight-year-old aunt’s garage to borrow some folding chairs. Beside my uncle’s model railway were six tubes of this fancy cream. “Modelling supplies,” Uncle Colin said. I picked one up. “Shea butter?” “For the hands. After the modelling.” A surprisingly expensive solution from a man who washes paintbrushes in old baked-bean tins. Then I noticed his nails. They were immaculate. Not clean. Colin has always been clean. These had shape. Shine. A finish usually reserved for cars he isn’t allowed to touch at exhibitions. “June’s been practising,” he said. “Practising what?” He looked towards the garden. I found Aunt June outside the summerhouse, moving a hanging basket directly in front of the window. “What’s in there?” “Garden things.” “Can I get the chairs?” “I’ll bring them round.” This was unusual enthusiasm for lifting furniture from someone who normally considers pointing a sufficient contribution. I opened the door. Inside were two armchairs, a stack of little towels, bottles of nail polish arranged by colour and Mrs Henderson from number twelve. With her feet in a basin. “Hello, love,” she said. “Are you the half eleven?” Last Christmas, Aunt June announced she was retiring from looking after everybody. No more committees. No more organising outings. She was finally going to sit down. Apparently she had meant professionally. “You’ve opened a salon?” “It’s just a few friends.” Mrs Henderson lifted one foot. “Careful, June. This one’s ready.” I looked at the little board on the wall. Manicure. Twelve pounds. Hand massage. Five pounds. Tea included. “Your friends have a price list?” “It saves awkwardness.” There was also an appointment book. Thursday was full. Friday had a waiting list. My aunt has spent eleven years telling me she doesn’t know how to work the calendar on her phone. Evidently the problem was that nobody had offered to pay her. Uncle Colin appeared with the folding chairs. “Found them,” he said, with the relief of a man hoping the original subject might still rescue him. “Did you know about this?” “I help with bookings.” “You answer the phone?” “And refreshments.” Aunt June looked at him. “Mrs Henderson’s tea’s gone cold.” He immediately disappeared. I asked whether he got paid. “Of course,” June said. “I’m not unreasonable.” “How much?” “One treatment a week.” That explained the nails. Then she took my hand. “Oh, love. When did you last do anything with these?” I left with two folding chairs, burgundy nails and an appointment for next Thursday. I’d gone round to investigate six tubes of hand cream and somehow become recurring revenue. submitted by /u/d00dl35 [link] [comments]

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