Author: Issa Mas

How the Nail Salon Became My Way Through Grief

By Issa Mas

I rub the acetone-soaked cotton ball over my nail over and over again. I take each nail and make tiny little circles over it until the fingertips holding the cotton ball begin to prune. I am careful to get in deep where the nail meets the cuticle. Taking off black nail polish is a meticulous process — only one round is seldom enough. You have to put some serious elbow grease into it to get all of the black out, especially if you are planning on wearing a sheer color afterwards, otherwise your nails look dirty and dingy. I think of all the nail techs who do this day in and day out, dozens and dozens of manicures in a day, and wonder about their health. Have there been any studies on nail techs and illnesses that could be directly related to the acetone they come into contact with on a daily basis? Can people die from this stuff? It can’t be good. “Maybe the pandemic has been helpful to them, in a way. I …

Finding Equilibrium: When You Both Need Care

By Issa Mas

My jaw clenches as he yells at me from less than two feet away about a video game character’s ability to perform some amazing feat I immediately tune out, despite the loudness of the words being drilled into my head. He’s woken up far earlier than usual, and the things I needed to do to make sure that I am taking care of myself before he gets up are forcefully blown into the wind, like someone else’s heartfelt desires against dandelion seeds. “Please lower your voice. I’m standing right here.” “I’M NOT YELLING.” He says this genuinely; without guile or sarcasm. “I know you don’t think you’re yelling, but trust me when I tell you, it sounds way louder out here than it does in there. And you have to remember that there are other people in this house; we’re not home alone anymore. Please lower your volume.” He scowls, takes in a breath, and then proceeds to say the exact same thing at the exact same volume, except now in a deeply exasperated tone. …

The Day I Stopped Trusting My Memory

By Issa Mas

“I don’t have time for this shit,” I grumbled to myself as I searched the apartment for my keys. Moving piles of unopened mail around on the kitchen table, I felt the familiar pit in my stomach begin to grow. “Why didn’t I put the keys on its porcelain dish as usual?” I chastised myself. “And why was this happening so often lately?” Just last week, I went searching for my iPhone and found it in the freezer. In the freezer. Don’t even ask me how I did that because — guess what — I don’t remember. Back in my years before Impending Cronehood, I had a remarkable memory — almost photographic. Dates, names, and intimate details were etched into my brain so clearly that I could recall them vividly, and I was often used as my friend’s journals, to be opened when their own recollections of the past grew hazy. “Hey, Issa, what was the name of that guy I used to date our freshman year in college? You know, the one who was …