“The nails are the invitation. The conversation is the connection.” 

Not long ago, I was sitting in a hospital room with my dad, who was critically ill. 

It had already been a difficult time for our family. 

One of his nurses, Ri, commented on my long, intricately decorated, ocean-themed nails, complete with coconuts. 

If you know me, you probably know where this story is going. 

I have long nails. I love decorating them the way some people decorate the walls of their homes with art. 

I enjoy a little bling. Maybe more than a little. I often wear colorful, comfortable clothes. I have long blonde hair. Subtle and muted are not my style. If someone asks me about any of it, I am perfectly happy to chat with a complete stranger or help however I can. 

I especially welcome those conversations when life is otherwise stressful or painful. There is something wonderfully distracting about talking about nails, jewelry, or a pair of red pants when the circumstances around you are anything but funny. For a few minutes, everyone gets to chuckle, exhale, and think about something else. 

That is exactly what happened with Ri. 

We started talking. First about my nails. Then my jewelry. Then my hair. Then my clothes. 

At some point, she wanted to know the brand of the comfortable red pants I was wearing. I could not remember, so naturally I twisted around and started trying to pull the tag out of the back of my pants to show her. 

That was precisely when my oldest daughter, Taylor, and her husband, Wade, walked into the room. 

They had come to the hospital worried about PopPop. Instead, they found Taylor’s mother beside the bed, reaching into the back of her pants and happily jabbering with a nurse while PopPop ate his lunch and watched the entire production as if it were the most normal thing in the world. 

They later told me they could hear my happy cooing from the hallway. 

As they entered the room, Ri and I moved on to examining my nails and jewelry, complete with the appropriate amountof oohing and aahing. 

My dad watched from his bed and explained to Ri that he never worries about me going anywhere I cannot carry a weapon. My sharp, long nails, he said, are my “weapons.” 

My dad has always been amused by my nails, jewelry, hair, clothes, and general tendency toward a little bling. He also has his own theory about why complete strangers regularly approach me. 

Dad says it is my long blonde hair. 

I disagree. 

I tell him it is because I am nice to people. 

I have also informed him that if he were a little nicer and less grumpy in the hospital, people might give him everything he wants. 

He remains unconvinced. According to Dad, it is definitely the long hair. 

So now I tell him I am going to buy him a long blonde wig. 

That makes him laugh. 

And on that day, in the middle of an extraordinarily difficult time, we laughed. 

Later, Wade said it appeared the hospital had “ordered that nurse just for me.” 

Maybe they did. 

But I have had versions of that same conversation my entire life. They happen everywhere, usually with people I did not know five minutes earlier, and often begin with something completely ordinary. 

I Have Always Talked to Strangers

Or perhaps strangers have always talked to me. 

People stop me in restaurants, salons, stores, gas stations hundreds of miles from home, airports, hotel lobbies, elevators, and Ubers and Lyfts. Sometimes it happens in places where neither of us expected to have a conversation at all. 

They ask me about all sorts of things. 

Where did I get my purse? Where did I buy my shoes? Who does my hair? Where did I find that piece of jewelry? What restaurant would I recommend? Do I know where something is? Can I help them find someplace? 

People even stop me for directions, including people who do not speak English, which is particularly optimistic on their part. 

I do not speak another language well. I remember a few phrases from high school Spanish, a little college French, and a handful of decidedly inappropriate German expressions my dad picked up as a teenager in the 1950s. His family lived in Munich while my grandfather was stationed there as an American G.I. after World War II. 

None of this qualifies me as an international information desk. 

But apparently I have a face that says, “I’ll help you figure it out.” 

And I usually try. 

Sometimes it requires pointing and a lot of hand gestures. Sometimes we study a map or a phone together. Sometimes neither of us is entirely sure what the other person is saying. Somehow, we usually manage. 

Maybe that is part of it. You do not need perfect words to make another person feel comfortable asking for help. 

And then, of course, there are the nails. 

Quite a few people simply want to know where I get them done. It happens often enough that I have carried cards from my nail salon and handed them to complete strangers. My family barely reacts anymore when someone I have never met starts studying my hands. 

But here is the interesting part. 

The conversation rarely stays about the nails. 

People Are Waiting to Be Seen 

Maybe there is something about me that says it is okay to ask. 

Ask about the nails. Ask where I bought something. Ask for directions. Ask whether I know a good restaurant. And sometimes, after the first question, ask something much more personal. 

I have had versions of these conversations my entire life. They usually begin with something almost ridiculously small. 

“Where did you get your nails done?” “I love that bracelet.” “Where did you buy that?” “Do you know how to get to…?” 

But if you stop what you are doing, smile, look them in the eye, answer the question, ask one in return, and actually listen, something can change. 

The person stops being a stranger. 

Not because you have suddenly become close friends. Not because you share the same background or experiences. Not because you agree about everything. 

Simply because, for a few minutes, you have noticed each other. 

And that is where the conversation sometimes becomes something else. 

Children. Parents. Marriage. Work. Money. Health. Fear. Hope. Aging. Beliefs. Dreams. What someone wants for their family. What someone worries about. What someone has learned. 

Sometimes you get nothing more than a terrific restaurant recommendation. Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you learn something. 

And sometimes someone you did not know five minutes earlier tells you something they apparently needed someone to hear that day. 

I have come to believe there is real value in simply being interested in people. 

The Nails Are the Invitation. The Conversation Is the Connection.

Over the years, I have had extraordinary conversations with people I probably never would have met otherwise. 

People with backgrounds very different from mine. People raised in different places. People who practice different faiths. People younger than I am, and people much older. People who have had experiences I have never had and whose lives, at first glance, may seem to have very little in common with mine. 

And yet, if we talk long enough, something happens. 

People are people. 

Eventually, we talk about our families. Our children. Our parents. Our marriages. Work. Education. Health. Money. Fear. Hope. What we want for our children. What keeps us awake at night. What we hope they never have to experience. What kind of adults we hope they become. 

Again and again, beneath all the differences, I hear remarkably familiar hopes. 

We want our children to be safe. We want them to receive good educations. We want them to have opportunities. We want them to find meaningful work and earn enough to support themselves and the people they love. We want them to live in safe communities. We want them to find people who love them. We want them to build families if that is what they want. We want them to be healthy. We want them to be happy. We want them to have peaceful lives. 

And we worry about them. 

Because apparently parenting does not come with an expiration date. 

You Do Not Have to Agree About Everything 

One of the saddest things about our world right now may be how easy it is to view another person primarily through a label. 

Where they are from. What they believe. How they vote. What they do for a living. How much money they have. How much education they have. What generation they belong to. 

Yet labels tell us surprisingly little about the conversation we might have if we actually sat down together. 

You do not have to agree with another person about everything. You probably will not. I do not agree with people I love dearly about everything. 

But disagreement does not prevent courtesy. Difference does not prevent curiosity. Neither prevents kindness. 

You do not have to agree about everything to recognize the humanity in each other. 

That should not be a revolutionary idea. But perhaps it is an idea worth repeating. 

Be Interested in People 

My legal career taught me plenty about relationships. 

The legal profession is, and always has been, a relationship business. I have repeatedly seen opportunities grow from people who know us, trust us, and remember us, rather than simply from applications or credentials. 

But relationships are not only professionally valuable. 

People are valuable. 

That is different. 

I have come to believe that leadership and character are not demonstrated only in how someone treats an important client or senior partner. They are also demonstrated in how that person treats assistants, receptionists, support staff, file clerks, messengers, wait staff, and people whose jobs or titles may have absolutely nothing to offer them professionally. Everyone deserves dignity. 

I would take that principle beyond the office. 

Notice people. Talk to them. Listen. Ask a question and pay attention to the answer. Be curious about someone whose life is different from yours. You can learn something new from everyone you meet. Be open. 

Someone asks. You try to help. 

Then sometimes you both laugh. Sometimes you learn something. Sometimes the conversation ends there. Sometimes they hug you at the end. And every so often, it becomes a story you remember. 

Dad Still Thinks It Is the Hair 

Dad still insists it is the long blonde hair. 

I still insist it is because I am nice to people. 

Maybe we are both partly right. 

Maybe the nails help. Maybe the hair helps. Maybe wearing something distinctive simply gives another person permission to say hello. 

Or maybe I just have a face and a smile that say, “It’s okay. You can ask me. I don’t bite.” 

Whatever it is, I am grateful for it. 

The nails are the invitation. The conversation is the connection. 

I am grateful for those conversations. I am grateful for the people who have approached me, for the stories they have trusted me with, and for the advice they have given me, too. 

And I am grateful that, on an otherwise frightening day in a hospital room, a nurse named Ri noticed my nails. 

For a little while, there was talk about jewelry, hair, and red pants. My children walked into something completely different from what they expected. My father teased me about my weapons. I threatened him with a long blonde wig. And everybody laughed. 

Sometimes that is enough. 

Maybe that is another thing people have in common. 

Even in hard moments, we need reasons to laugh. We need reasons to connect. And sometimes we need another person to remind us that life is still happening all around us. 

People are people. 
Talk to them. 
You may be surprised by how much you have in common.