Even in hard times, even if there’s just ₦5,000 left after feeding, one thing will still show up in the budget — hair, nails, lashes, brows. Not because we’re vain, but because when a woman looks good, she feels stronger, more ready to face life.
I knew this not because I read it somewhere, but because I lived it. I saw it every day in my sisters, aunties, neighbors. No matter what life threw at them, they still went to plait their hair or do quick nails before a Sunday service or birthday.
But I didn’t open a salon because I loved beauty — at first. I opened it because I was tired of asking for help.
I had just finished NYSC and like most people, the job I hoped for didn’t come. I had skills — I learned how to braid and do nails during school — but no space, no shop, and no capital. I was staying with my cousin in a one-room apartment in a semi-busy part of town, and I had ₦70,000 in total. That was it. No monthly allowance. No family backup.
But something shifted when one woman knocked on our door one morning.
She was our neighbor from two houses away. Aunty Shade. She had a wedding to attend and her stylist had traveled. She saw me once braiding my cousin’s hair and said, “You fit run am for me?”
I hesitated — not because I couldn’t do it, but because I didn’t think anyone would trust me for real business.
She sat down. I took my time. Braided her hair. Trimmed. Hot water. Styled. She looked in the mirror and smiled wide.
“Ah-ah! You sabi work oh!”
She paid me ₦4,000. No argument.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, I walked to the nearby plaza where young girls do nails and makeup in small shops. I asked one of them, “How much did you use to start?”
She smiled. “I started with just chair and mirror oh. My first money na ₦55,000.”
That was all I needed to hear.
I didn’t wait for a big shop or fancy banner. I used ₦35,000 to rent a corner space in front of a woman’s tailoring shed — just a small outdoor spot, shade and all. I borrowed my cousin’s standing mirror, bought one plastic chair, a bag of attachments, two combs, small towels, and ring light (the smallest one I could find) for ₦15,000 total. I kept the rest for transport and touch-ups.
Total investment? ₦70,000.
That first week, I did four heads. One woman told her friend. Her friend told her sister. The sister told the girl that sells earrings in front of the chemist. I didn't shout. I didn’t post online. I just did good work and stayed humble.
They started calling me “the gentle girl that plaits soft.” That name spread faster than flyers.
By week three, I added nails. I didn’t buy everything at once. Just basic tips, glue, and two polish colors — ₦6,500 total. But I styled it like magic. I watched YouTube videos, practiced on myself, and when I posted one nail picture on my WhatsApp story, five people booked for Saturday.
People would say, “You no even get signboard, but your place dey always full.”
I smiled. Because I knew my real signboard was trust.
I never kept customers waiting. I didn’t gossip. I never inflated prices. And when someone couldn’t pay full, I allowed them to transfer later — especially if they were regulars. Sometimes, I even did free brows for someone who lost their job. And guess what? She brought me six new customers.
That’s what nobody tells you: in beauty, trust is louder than makeup.
Women can forgive one bad nail. They won’t forgive disrespect. They may forget your name, but not how you made them feel.
After six months, I had saved ₦180,000. Not profit — savings. From a humble corner shop with no sign, no air conditioning, just consistency and clean work. I now had three chairs, a friend helping me part-time, and more customers than I could sometimes handle. I wasn’t rich, but I was full. Full of purpose.
By then, I had also added makeup and soft facials. I didn’t go for expensive training — I watched tutorials, practiced, and stayed honest. If I didn’t know how to do something, I’d say, “Let me try. If you no like am, no pay.”
That honesty made me stand out.
The turning point came when a woman booked me for her wedding glam. She said, “You may not have the big salon, but you have light in your hands.”
That broke me. In a good way.
That day, I told myself: I may start small, but I’ll never play small with my gift.
So now, one year later, I’ve moved into a small indoor space. Not a huge salon yet — but a beautiful one. Curtains. Mirror lights. Music. Quiet elegance. No noise.
I still do hair, nails, brows, makeup — but more than anything, I give peace. Women come, sit, breathe, laugh. Some even cry when I make them feel beautiful after a hard week.
And every time someone says, “Your touch is different,” I remember the ₦70,000 I almost used for something else.
The beauty business is not about starting big. It’s about starting clean. Serving deeply. Building slowly. And never rushing the blessing.
There are women who spend ₦5,000–₦15,000 weekly just to look good — and they don’t complain when the work is good and the heart is right. Don’t ever let anyone tell you beauty is not a serious business. It feeds families. Pays rent. Builds legacies.
It built mine.
And someone has to be the one they trust to make it happen.
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