Nails

The fact that the movie In Hell was playing on the television in the corner was a bad sign. We stood in the doorway, dripping wet, while the rain pattered outside, contemplating our options. No wait time. Good price. We weren't sure about the atmosphere: harsh, stark lighting, and powder blue walls. My sis and I had just slogged our way through the rainy Friday morning to have coffee and a chat at Cafe Vita. After delicious,warm drinks in a cozy corner of the cafe, we thought it'd be fun to get our nails done. Relax a little. Pamper ourselves. As a single mom, Molly doesn't have as many opportunities to do that, so we wanted to take full advantage of the girl time while Trav was away with his dad over Thanksgiving weekend. The bad weather led us to check out a new nail place just up the street from the coffee shop. The price and immediate service cemented our decision to give it a whirl. We plunked down a bit uncertainly in the poofy black manicure chairs.

"This movie is awesome!" said the man with the heavy accent who was filing my sister's nails. Not so much. Nothing about the moans, screams, torture, and beating scenes of In Hell improved the unrelaxing "spa" atmosphere. I kept making comments about finding the movie disturbing, stressful, traumatizing...but neither Mr. or Mrs.Nail Salon took the hint. I started to feel like I was in hell. When Jean Claude Van Damme finally got thrown into solitary confinement, I breathed a sigh of relief. Miserable peace. That lasted about a minute before he started hearing desperate screams from his cell. I couldn't take it anymore. My hints had gone unnoticed so I decided to take a straightforward approach. "Uh, could we change the channel? The violence is really bothering me." Visibly disappointed, Mr. Nail Salon got up and briskly flipped the channel a couple of times. We went from In Hell to Days of Our Lives. Fine. I can live with daytime soaps. I hadn't seen Days in years and years, but it turns out I was still very familiar with many of the characters.

Mr. and Mrs. Nail Salon worked away at our nails. Mr. NS started painting my sister's much earlier than Mrs. NS started on mine, and things were not going well. "You missed this side" my sister pointed out. "This nail looks really bumpy. Can you fix it?" she asked. Layer after layer, he just kept painting and painting over her nails. Another customer named Lisa came in ("Oh good! Days is on!") and soon after Mrs. NS moved me over a chair so she could turn her attention to Lisa while I waited for Mr. NS to apply my polish. I panicked as he approached to prep my hands. "No, no, no.Um, hold on a minute. I'm not sure about this. Look at her nails. They're messy!" I said while pointing accusingly at my sister's hand. Mr. and Mrs. NS did not understand, and they kept trying to sell me on some other polish. "No, no. The polish isn't the problem. I just don't want it to look messy! Messy!" Molly tried to explain, I tried to explain. Finally, Mrs.NS huffily abandoned Lisa to somewhat roughly paint my nails (while Lisa finished the job of removing her own old polish) and they still turned out...messy. Mrs.NS could sense our dismay, and she gave us a big discount, but still. We left disgruntled and giggling and comparing the flaws on our hands.

Shellac manicures are supposed to last about two weeks. While shopping for groceries the next morning, the purple shell of polish on my right pinky finger popped right off. One minute I'm selecting groceries off the shelf, the next I'm carrying around a nail at Safeway. This afternoon, I got this text from my sister.

Mols: My middle finger polish is about to fall off.

Mols: I want to give them the middle finger.

Me: I know, dude. I know.

Sigh.

Not quite as bad as the 4th of July debacle, but it's up there.