Some people remember childhood bike rides and ice-cream sundaes; I remember acetone and moon-slivers of nails. From a young age I learned what distinguishes a spa from a nail salon: the former is where you go to relax and be pampered, while the latter, with its buffing and filing and cleaning and cutting and the sound of a language that still reminds you of home, is somewhere you go to armor yourself against the world; somewhere you can lay your head back, close your eyes, and complain about how your half-Vietnamese daughter only wants to eat chicken tenders.