Yesterday I decided to go up the street from work and get my nails did.
This is epic. I just recently acquired my talons. Never, ever have I ever in the past gone to have a manicure with my own nails. I usually show up with irritated little nubs and ask them to glue fake ones on and slather it in paste and shellac until they don’t even look like they belong to a human.
Then I spend the rest of the week going about daily tasks with an added dose of difficulty. Buttoning pants, typing, putting in contacts… how do beautiful people accomplish anything? I usually get enraged and begin to rip off said fake talons within a few short days, throwing my money down the trash and completely ruining my once-unimpressive, now-torn-up-and-disturbing nails. But yesterday I went in to the nail place up the street from work and asked for a French Manicure.
Doesn’t that sound fancy? I have long enough nails to ask for French things. That’s sexy.
Actually, there’s nothing at all sexy about it and going into nail salons in general stresses me out. For one, there’s usually so many women gathered in one place, gabbing about women things that estrogen is dripping down the walls. Two, I can’t for the life of me understand what the technicians are saying. Even if English is their first language, I can’t get a sense of anything while their mouths are blocked by the face masks. And it would be one thing if I just had to get through explaining what I wanted, but then they try to make my experience better by talking to me during the services, and I just have absolutely no idea what’s being said. I like to contribute, and so I try. I tend to keep responses general and ambiguous. You know, something that could pretty much be an appropriate response to anything. I nod and smile and say things like “Yeah, I know what you mean!”, “Right…”, and the all-encompassing “Yeah.”
During my most recent experience, the gentleman who was kind enough to whip my new nails into something presentable saw something on T.V. that got him excited and began to mumble on underneath his face mask, looking at me every so often for my enthusiastic confirmation.
He monologued for 5 minutes.
Five minutes is a long time to wait out not knowing what the hell someone is talking about. There are a thousand things I could be unknowingly agreeing to with all my “rights” and “yeahs”. He could’ve sold me a broken down inn down the street. He could have taken me for a prostitute. He could have told me he was going to go punch a baby in the face and I would have just kept nodding on, waiting for the pain to end.
Luckily, an update for “Dancing with the Stars” came on the television, and it trumped whatever was previously on his mind. With rapt attention, he stared ahead, getting the low-down on what was to be expected from the season finale.
I would have been able to contribute to the conversation he was about to have with himself if only I had T.V. like every other American ever.
But I don’t.
Note to self: watch T.V., practice “yes” phrases, then go get nails done. ♣
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