They take in my laminated price list with raised eyebrows, looking thoroughly impressed. I try not to beam with pride, because I have to be professional and I don’t think grinning like a lunatic is part of professionalism.
I wait patiently as Janet and Catherine go through my design book, even though my heart is going too fast and I don’t feel patient. I’m somewhere between excited and absolutely terrified.
Finally, Janet hands the notebook to me and points to one of the simpler designs. It’s a cluster of flowers and leaves and swirls.
I smile. Easy.
“Great!” I say brightly. “This is the menu for the restaurant, by the way, if you want to order anything while you wait.” I hand Catherine the leather-bound menu and reach for my henna tube. “Where do you want to get it?”
Janet seems to consider this for a moment, turning her hand round and round to get a good look.
“Umm … the back of my hand.”
“Okay, can you put your hand palm down and flat on the table?” I ask.
Janet does exactly as I instruct her—wordlessly—and I get started. Catherine spends the entire time leaning forward in her chair and watching the process with wide eyes. Halfway through, Priti even snaps a few photos for the Instagram account.
When I’m finished, Janet looks at her hand with a smile on her lips. I’m smiling too, because the design came out exactly as it looks in the notebook.
“You’ll have to keep it like that until it dries off. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes, probably even less, but the longer you keep it on, the more the color will set.”
“And how do I take it off of my hand?” she asks. “Is there like … a special chemical or something that I should use?”
I bite down a smile.
“Just brush it off over a sink. It might stain a bit—the sink, I mean—but it should wash off. Try not to wash it off with water. Your hand. Not the sink. You should wash the sink with water.”
“Okay.” Janet looks like she doesn’t completely understand me. “Can I take a photo for Instagram?”
“Sure! But could you tag me in it?”
“Of course.” She grins, fishing around in her pocket for her phone. “Your turn, Cat.”
Catherine and Janet exchange seats. Catherine is still unsure, I can tell by the way she’s glancing back at Janet. “How long does it take to go away?” she asks.
“Well, assuming you let the color set properly, a few weeks. But if you don’t like it and decide to wash it off, the color won’t even have a chance to set.”
That seems to convince her, because she nods her head.
“Do you want to look at my designs again?” I ask.
She quickly shakes her head and says, “I want the same as Jan’s, is that okay?”
“Sure. Same place?”
She nods and I lay her hand on the table too, palm down. She giggles when I touch her hand with the henna tube.
I bite down another grin as I settle into the work. I get lost in it.
Fifteen minutes later, Catherine is admiring her hand the same as Janet, and I’m trying not to beam with pride.
“That’ll be fifteen euros each.” They both pay up happily, mumbling theirthank yousand admiration.
I’ve known Catherine and Janet for years, and have never felt anything but nonchalance or even occasional dislike from them. This is the first time anything resembling respect has been aimed at me from my fellow classmates. If I’m honest, it feels good. For once, my classmates are actually admiring my culture instead of scoffing at it.
I mean, what I love about Bengali culture is much more than henna or the food, but those are things we can share here meaningfully.
I see Catherine and Janet off to the entrance of the restaurant, waving goodbye with the brightest smile I can muster while looking around for signs of any more customers.
