I trained in Almaty, in a small room above a tailor, where the first thing my teacher told me was that nails are not decoration. They are a small, daily devotion — a way of returning to your own hands.

AyliNaily began in 2017 as one chair in my apartment in Greenpoint. Five years later, a storefront on Franklin Avenue, with one window onto the sycamores and a kettle that is always on. Two artists. One sitting at a time.

We work slowly. A Russian dry manicure, a hand-mixed polish, a conversation that does not need to be filled. You leave with your shoulders down.