Work at a beauty salon. When a husband came in to pick up his wife, our client, She said, “Pay for my manicure, honey. It’s $300.” I gasped—we charge $50. The man paid, and they left. The same client ran back into the salon minutes later, screaming, “You are a liar!”
I blink, bewildered. I’m sorry?
She pointed at me, red-faced. “You said $300! You’re scamming us!”
I responded, “No, I didn’t,” slowly, trying to stay cool. “You informed him. I remained silent. Our manicure costs $50. He paid without asking.”
She grumbled, looked around the salon, and left without saying a word. I stood dumbfounded. Nina, my coworker, said, “What just happened?”
She said $300 to her spouse. then blamed me.”
A moment of silence. Next, Nina whispered, “Wow… That girl has guts.”
I thought it was over. However, it was not.
The same woman returned two days later—alone. She entered without a fuss, requested the same nail tech, and seated.
Despite my shock, I acted professionally. As she looked at nail paint samples, I noticed the front door. Her husband was absent.
She paid the usual $50 with a smile at the register.
She turned and said, “Please don’t say anything if he comes back again.” before leaving.
Then it hit me.
She deceived her husband.
I was unsure how to react. Although I wasn’t involved, I witnessed something odd. She returned three more times in the following weeks. She always requested her normal service. Every time, she paid the standard price. She left every time without a fuss.
Then something changed.
A man entered the salon on Saturday afternoon. He wasn’t the previous visitor. Though younger and cleaner, this one appeared uncomfortable.
“I’m looking for Marissa,” he continued, scanning the room.
Her name was Marissa. While getting a manicure, she scrolled on her phone in the rear. She stiffened at his sight.
Hissed, “You can’t be here.
“I need to talk to you,” he said.
No one spoke in the salon.
She stood, nails half-done, and left with him. From the window, I observed them arguing in the parking lot. Flying hands. Faces red. She left alone, got in her car, and drove away. He stood by, watching her leave.
I faced Nina. “What do you think that meant?”
Maybe the hubby found out.”
“No,” I answered. That wasn’t her spouse.”
And it wasn’t.
The first husband arrived the next day.
He appeared exhausted from lack of sleep. He approached the front desk and asked, “How much does my wife really pay here?”
I hesitated. My heart pounded. I didn’t want to ruin a marriage. I didn’t want to lie either.
“Our standard manicure is $50,” I remarked gently. “We never charge $300.”
He looked unsurprised. Just empty.
“Thank you,” he added, leaving.
Marissa was absent for a spell.
A month passed.
She returned one morning wearing sunglasses and a jacket. She looked completely different.
“Is Maria here?” That was our boss.
With arms crossed, Maria left her office. You must leave, Marissa.”
“What? Why?”
“Your husband has been calling every day since you tried to lie to my staff. You must clean up elsewhere.”
Marissa stood. She appeared little for the first time. Not mad. Not arrogant. Quite little.
“Please,” she whispered. “I lost everything. I want nails done.”
Maria sighed. “We’re not your place anymore.”
Marissa departed silently.
I doubted I’d see her again. Life has an odd way of repeating itself.
Three months later, I shopped at a tiny grocery store after work. While collecting apples, I heard a voice behind me.
You work at the salon, right?
I turned. It was her.
But she looked different. Short hair, no makeup, jeans, and a plain t-shirt. She appeared genuine.
“Yes,” I answered thoughtfully.
“I apologize. For everything. I wasn’t doing well then.”
Let her speak—I stayed quiet.
I managed two lives. My hubby is sweet and gentle. But I felt confined. Then I met someone else and believed I was smart for balancing it all. But lies accumulate. They fall on you.”
“I understand,” I whispered. “Why the $300 lie?”
Bitterly, she laughed. “I wanted the affair to look like a task. I needed money for lodging and gifts. I would sneak out after telling him I was heading to the salon.”
It twisted my gut.
“I’m not proud,” she said hurriedly. “Ultimately, both men learned. One dumped me. The other left. I’m alone.”
Not knowing what to say. I felt sad for her. Something else didn’t.
You’re doing what? I requested.
She shrugged. Working in a bakery. It humbles. My nails chip in 2 days.”
I grinned. “Maybe you need that now.”
She nods. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She halted before leaving. “You were always kind. Yes, I remember. Even when I didn’t deserve.”
Then she left.
I kept that meeting quiet for a long. It seemed unnecessary.
Then something else happened.
A woman entered the salon weeks later. She appeared anxious. She said she were new to town and looking for work. Her resume was given to Maria.
Maria halted after scanning. Worked at Sweet Bloom Bakery?
“Yes,” she said. “My friend manages there.”
An eyebrow lifted by Maria. I also know her. I worked there before launching this place.”
Small world.
She got the job. Her name was Rina. She worked hard but wasn’t glamorous. Always punctual. Be kind to all.
I caught her staring at the tip jar as we closed.
“Everything okay?” I requested.
She nods. “Yeah. Just thankful. I had worse.”
Maria later informed me Rina fled an abusive relationship six months earlier. Fresh start. Slowly, she rebuilt her life.
“She reminds me of someone,” Maria added.
“Me too,” I whispered.
Then who entered one afternoon?
Marissa.
Now, not for herself. She held the hand of a six-year-old girl. They came in to paint the kid’s nails.
“She wanted pink sparkles,” Marissa said with a soft smile.
The little girl nodded eagerly.
We took care of them. No drama. No tension.
As they were leaving, Marissa looked at me. “I got custody. He didn’t want her. I’m doing it alone.”
“You seem… different,” I said.
She grinned. “I am. Some lessons come with bruises.”
She paused, then said, “I’m sorry again. For everything.”
I nodded. “Thank you for saying that.”
As they left, I noticed Rina watching from the corner. She didn’t say a word.
Later, she came to me and asked, “Was that the woman you talked about?”
I nodded.
“She’s trying,” Rina said simply. “That counts for something.”
It does.
Sometimes people fall. Hard. They lie. They break things. But sometimes… they build again.
Over time, Marissa became a quiet presence in town. She baked cupcakes for school events. Volunteered at the community center. She came back to the salon now and then—never fancy, just normal.
Rina, meanwhile, saved up for her own apartment. She got promoted to front desk manager. She still brought homemade lunch every day. Always offered the last cookie to someone else.
One day, Maria asked her, “Why are you so kind, even after all you’ve been through?”
Rina smiled. “Because I know what it’s like when no one is.”
I think that’s the biggest lesson I’ve learned working here.
People are messy. Complicated. But they’re also capable of change.
Marissa lied to the man who loved her. She lost everything. But she learned. She owned up to her mistakes. And she’s raising a daughter now with gentleness and truth.
Rina escaped pain and chose to heal by lifting others.
And me? I learned to stay kind. Even when it’s easier not to be.
Because sometimes, the $300 lie turns into a life lesson someone never forgets.
So if you’ve ever been burned, or if you’ve made mistakes you regret—remember: it’s never too late to change your story.
Share this if you believe people can grow. Like it if you know someone who needs to hear that forgiveness starts with truth.
Thanks for reading.
