Yesterday I popped into a new nail salon to get gels. You might know about my recent addiction to nail polish, I’m sad to report that nail polish is simply a gateway drug. I’m now addicted to gels. Gels are always shiny.
So I run into the nail salon that a friend promised is clean. Well, it wasn’t as clean as I’d hoped. I kept having to ask, is that new? And the guy would casually wipe the nail file with a dirty old towel and say yes. I’d sigh and ask to see the package, he’d glare at me and open a fresh whatever.
Somehow I’d turned a color change into an antagonistic affair.
Michael and I clearly detested one another. I asked him to cut my nails short, he told me that red nails need to be long. “But I type a lot, and I wash dishes. I need short nails.” I said. “Red nails don’t look good short.” He replied and proceeded to file my nails angrily. I should have walked out the door.
Finally I grabbed the clippers and showed him the length I wanted. He shook his head and told me that short nails weren’t stylish.
I finally looked up at the wall behind him and wanted to crawl out of my skin. I realized that I was sitting across the table from a filthy misogynist who was tacky as hell. At eye level there were dozens of photographs of girls who I presume are family members, but surrounding the sweet images of girls graduating everything from pre-kinder to college were business cards from half naked strippers offering free admission to the strip clubs they work in.
Oh The Valley. We’re the hub of the porn industry, and of course I somehow found the favorite manicurist of the featured dancer. I stayed and got the worst manicure of my life. I have flooded cuticles and one layer of polish too many. Every instinct I had told me to leave, my manners, my absolutely useless manners, told me to stay.