For those of you who know me, or for anyone who follows this blog, you know I’m a complete mess. From falling on my face to spitting while talking, I’m a walking time bomb that could explode at any minute.
And by “explode” I mean fart. Seriously. I’m gassy.
Despite my status as a full on F4 disaster, I like to have my toes and nails perfectly manicured. I’m only an F4 disaster because I still manage to bathe myself most days and I speak somewhat coherently.
Maybe wanting manicured nails is my way of trying to have some tidiness and order in my otherwise chaotic life, or maybe it’s just because I love the hand massage they give during the manicure.
Whatever the reason, I look forward to a mani/pedi every few weeks. And if my husband asks, I only get them every 2 months.
This Sunday I decided to skip the gym and get a mani/pedi instead. I figured this was a good move considering I would be attending a baseball-watch party later where I would eat large amounts of buffalo chicken dip, and I didn’t want to screw that up with a morning workout. That just wouldn’t make sense.
My friends (both of them) had plans so I was forced to go to the nail salon by myself for my pampering. Well, me and my Starbucks drink, and my Us Weekly, and my iPad. I didn’t want to be bored during my relaxation time.
I arrived at my favorite nail salon and they weren’t busy. I assumed it was because it was a Sunday morning and most people were at church worshiping something other than the massage chairs at the salon.
I am completely in love with those chairs and have considered leaving my husband for them. They would always make me happy and wouldn’t scold me for leaving my wet towels on the floor. At least that’s how it goes in my fantasy.
Her reaction to my Cheetos stained fingers complete with chipped nail polish and a pesky hangnail was less than desirable.
“Are you sure you don’t want a manicure too?” She asked, with disapproval in her eyes.
Flustered by her rudeness and her “Hello Kitty t-shirt clearly purchased in the girls’ department, I said I wasn’t sure if I had time for a manicure since I had to be at book club in less than an hour.
I wanted to throw in the fact that I was in a book club as a way to prove I wasn’t a complete drain on society. She didn’t need to know that I didn’t read the book.
She encouraged me to make time for the manicure because I really needed it.
Um, I knew I needed a manicure, but to be blatantly told I needed one was a little off putting. It was like telling a fat person to lose weight, or telling Conan O’Brien to be funny.
Sometimes you just need to think things and not say them out loud.
I walked over to the pedicure chair and attempted to climb into it. Since I’m not capable of doing anything without making a scene, I stumbled into the chair and my 85 pound nail technician had to come over and help me up.
I was fearful that putting the weight of my arm on her would crush her minuscule frame, but she was more durable than she appeared. I sat down in the chair and turned on the massage function and prepared to escape into happiness, or at least a solid snooze.
My nail technician’s tag said her name was Ann, but I suspected it wasn’t anything close to that. I also suspected she wouldn’t answer to the name “Ann” and I made a mental note to test that theory later in the pedicure.
“Ann” looked at my toes and asked if I wanted to have my toenails trimmed. Really? What a dumb question. Not as dumb as “Would you like another piece of cake?” but it was in that same category.
Of course I wanted my nails trimmed. Wasn’t that part of the package of getting a pedicure?
She proceeded with the pedicure and she made good time. When she was done she took one look at my fingernails and told me to go sit in the chair by the door and she would be right over. Um, okay.
What did she want with me? Was this where I was going to pay?
I wanted to test out my theory about whether she would respond to “Ann” so I said her name out loud. She turned around and looked at me, but I wasn’t sure if she was responding to my contemplating ways to torture me. It was probably a little of both.
I asked her why I was going over to the chair by the door and she responded that I was getting a manicure. Well, I had no idea that Ann was such a bossy pants, but apparently she was. I picked up all my things, which looked like a carry on bag with all the items inside, and went over to Ann’s station. She came over quite quickly and began working on my fingernails.
Two of her coworkers were sitting next to her eating Tootsie Pops, and the three of them began talking in a language other than English. Although I took one French class, I knew enough to know the language they were speaking wasn’t French, or anything from the European country.
I arbitrarily decided they were either speaking Korean or Pig Latin, but I couldn’t crack the code any further. Either way, I was confident they were talking about me.
This was bolstered by the fact that one of the women looked at me and laughed, and then started talking to the others while staring me down.
I’d like to think they were complimenting my shirt, or the fact that I was wearing matching earrings, but I was pretty sure they were making fun of me.
Being ridiculed in a different language isn’t nearly as much fun as it sounds, and I became a bit irritated that I was clearly their topic of conversation.
Ann sensed my irritability so she decided to say something offensive. She turned back to me once again said “Your toenails were really bad. You need to come in more.”
Okay lady, the way to my heart, and my wallet for a tip, wasn’t to make fun of my toenails. But then she took it one step further. She said “Do you do a lot of gardening? Your toenails were dirty.”
At first I was offended, but then I was somewhat relieved when I realized her bad attitude would result in more money in my pocket since her tip was rapidly decreasing.
She finished my manicure but the second it was over she darted to the back room, probably to smoke a cigarette or purge the 5 calories she ingested that day.
I waited for my nails to dry and when I thought they were ready, I reached in my purse for my keys. Big mistake. I smudged two of my fingers.
I thought about yelling “Man down!’ as loud as I could but I was pretty sure they wouldn’t get the joke.
My purse was on the ground which means I had to bend from the chair to get into it.
The chair was on wheels. I’m not sure why it was on wheels, as there was nowhere to go inside the salon that requires chairs on wheels.
Apparently I wasn’t as smooth as I thought I was (and neither were my legs, as the technician reminded me when she gave me a calf massage).
I looked over to the two technicians sucking away on their third Tootsie Pop, and told them I smudged my nails.
One of them huffed and sighed and came over to Ann’s station and repaired my nails.
She did so in a very quick manner, which was probably a result of all the sugar she ingested with those Tootsie Pops.
I wanted to ask them where they got them, but I was pretty sure they were already pretty sick of me so I didn’t push it.
I sat there with my nails in front of the fan for a while waiting for them to dry. Then one of the Tootsie Pop Twins came over and said “Do you want to leave?”
I responded that I wanted to leave but I thought my nails were still wet. She then got into Ann’s drawer and pulled out a liquid and put it on my nails.
She told me to feel my nails and I noticed they were instantly dry. She told me I could leave since my nails were dry. WHAT?!
The entire time they had a substance that could dry my nails immediately and they made me sit and torture myself in front of the fan?
Why didn’t they just put this on my nails and let me go? Probably so they could sit and make fun of my disheveled hair and mismatched outfit.
I got up to leave and as I did, the Tootsie Pop Twins kept repeating “careful” to me over and over. I’m not sure if they were talking about me being careful not to fall, or careful not to smudge my nails, but I didn’t care.
Their words of caution were clearly disingenuous and I was pretty sure they were both hoping I fell on the way out.
I miraculously managed to reach my car without chipping the polish and I headed to book club in silence. I couldn’t figure out why those women were so mean to me, and why they felt it appropriate to comment on my nails.
I also realized that despite the fact they were a bit rude and judgmental, my nails looked amazing and I knew I would go back for more. I felt like a battered wife that keeps going back for more abuse. Only this time the abuse isn’t a physical beating, but verbal comments about long toenails and poor hygiene. I would take it as long as my nails looked good!