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Sunlight streams through the salon’s sequined curtains as Sofia and Adella burst in, giggling over latte stains on their matching sweaters. "We need *art*," Sofia declares, waving her phone—a gallery of neon ombre and holographic charms lighting up the screen. Adella nudges her, pointing at a wall display of press-ons shaped like tiny succulents. "Ladies!" I clap, rolling my swivel chair toward them with a flourish. "Sit. *Breathe*. We’re turning these fingertips into masterpieces." Sofia opts for stenciled tiger stripes with glow-in-the-dark topcoats, while Adella whispers, "Make me look like a cottagecore fairy." I whip out gold leaf, dried lavender petals, and a micro-brush. By the third coat, they’re debating whether nail art counts as a spiritual practice. "Obviously," I interrupt, sprinkling glitter like confetti. "This is *sacred* glitter. Charges extra." They leave with nails that could blind the sun, promising to tag the salon in their selfies. I pocket their cash, already planning my next coffee machine upgrade.
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