Nails on a Chalkboard

I got my nails done yesterday.  It's one of the few little personal pampering extravagances I indulge in. I've never been a clothes horse and the whole shoe thing is lost on me. But my inner-girly-girl gets recharged with a fresh coat of polish. Getting manicures and pedicures are even a new discovery for me, I was raised by practical folk whose big indulgence was dental cleaning and haircuts.

I headed off at 11:30 highly anticipating the bliss of 45 minutes in a massage chair, the warm jetted tub my tootsies were about to soak in and the following blissfully relaxing hand and foot massage that makes the whole ordeal of beating my cuticles in submission worth every little pinch. Visions of sugar plum purples and candy cane reds or sparkling golds and silvers danced in my head.  I was nearly giddy with the excitement.

The salon is 5 minutes from our house in a small strip mall development. I've been going for a couple of years and the nail stylists are all lovely women with quick smiles and ready conversation. The place is far from fancy but that's part of the charm. It's small and intimate with only 6 work stations.  There is a small shrine to Buddha, always laden with oranges, candy, some bills and coins, a cigarette and tea bags. The philodendron reaches to the ceiling and around the window.  Shiny fabric shower curtains double as swaths of fabric arches leading to the spa chairs. Someone takes pride in lining up the hundreds of bottles of polish by color and tone, almost as a beautiful tonal display of color on a small wall. Each work station features pictures of families and children. It's homey and warm and welcoming.

As I was finishing up with my pedi, a pair of young women came in to get acrylic nails put on. With them was a young girl of about 8 and a very little boy, a toddler still in diapers. People come and go out of the salon and sometimes girls accompany a mom or grandma or big sister in getting their toes or nails painted. Unfortunately,  my manicure work station was right next to the station belonging to one of the young women getting the acrylics. 

As I sat with my fingers soaking (Madge and Palmolive are never far from my mind!)  I was trying not to be entirely put off by the overwhelming odor of cheap cigarettes and cheaper perfume radiating off the young woman seated next to me. She couldn't have been more than 21 and already had a smoker's voice and cough. Her tank top was scooped so low it was impolite. She was wearing pajama pants rolled down below her hips and the arm nearest to me had a large tattoo that read "Fuck YOU."  She struck me as someone for whom every day is a battle.  She was getting long artificial nails with a design on them. I asked her what the design was and she replied, "Hundred dollar bills."  I chuckled and said, "Oh, feeling rich today?" She shrugged and looked back at her cell phone that was in the hand not being worked on. I spent a lot of time pondering the significance of hundred dollar bill nails. I also wondered how someone could be dressed like that in Minnesota on a cold, wet day and not have pneumonia.

The other young woman was seated across from me. She had a great deal of facial hardware, nose ring, eye brow ring, a couple of lip rings, a cheek stud and neck tattoos. She was wearing sweats and was built like a linebacker. She had a coarse loud voice and spoke in a "ya, gotta, ain't," manner that always strikes me as lazy and not terribly bright.  She was the mother of the two children. I spent a great deal of time trying not to have judgemental thoughts. I can't say I had a great deal of success.

After the first 5 minutes of observing these two, the kids got my attention. The little boy was impossible to ignore as he ran screaming through the salon, running from one customer to another. Little boys and nail salons are not a happy combination. Off the wall came the perfectly lined up polish bottles. The spigot on the Culligan water dispenser was turned on and off and on and off. Little plastic flip flops were pulled out the basket and flung about.  The four salon workers were so busy keeping an eye on the kid so he wouldn't hurt himself they were really not giving the customers, including myself, the attention we were paying for.  Not to mention, the toddler-level shrieking. My inner-Scrooge was thinking...oh the noise noise noise!!!

Metalhead mother kept telling her daughter to look after her son. This little girl apparently had been promised a manicure if she kept an eye on her brother. A herd of Super Nannies and Mary Poppins herself, would have been hard pressed to keep this kid in line. To his credit (because I have to force myself to find some) he was a joyful little kid. No matter how often he was corrected or told to sit or told (not very convincingly) NO, he never lost his smile or his engaging manner. The daughter  continued to engage him in some iPhone activity which would hold his attention for a split second and then he'd be off in another hurricane of joyful destruction. At one point he was trying to open a door that has a tricky hinge and two of the salon workers leaped up to grab him from amputating his fingers in the door. The mother continued to berate and belittle her daughter for letting this kid misbehave.

To say that I was losing patience would be an understatement. Fuck YOU next to me was busy texting and would randomly look up and tell her friend/sister/cohort that the next time, they leave the kids in the car.  The stylist working on my nails looked up in alarm at me with a "did you just hear that???" look.  Finally the daughter convinced the little guy to sit with her and watch a movie on the iPhone. It got very quiet and the salon seemed to relax just a little. I breathed a little sigh of relief and sat back a bit to enjoy the remainder of my visit.  Until the moment when the little guy scrunched up his face and grunted. And then he grunted some more. I'll spare you the details, but I'll end with this; the odor was not unlike what I imagine the more ripe walkers on The Walking Dead must smell like.

That was it. That was the end of any enjoyment on my part. I am not a Mom. Squishy stinky body excretions, fluids and spewage are not in my wheelhouse at all.  I have pets and have trouble cleaning up after them. My husband does the cat boxes. He's also the primary poop picker upper. I was at the point in the manicure of no turning back. I couldn't get up and leave. I had to endure the application of three layers of polish, a top coat, the curing under the UV lights and a rub down with alcohol. My eyes were watering. My nose was trying very hard to evacuate. I thought about breathing through my mouth but imagined how bad it would taste if it smelled that bad. 

I wish  I could say this story had a happy ending. It didn't. Metalhead Mother made it clear she didn't have a clean diaper on  her and while complaining loudly about the odor, didn't make any attempt to make it any less unpleasant for the rest of us. Fuck YOU had plenty to say, none of it polite. There was no snickering, no potty humor, no "oh I hate it when this happens" camaraderie. It was abject horror.

My nail stylist finished up my manicure. I paid my bill and tipped her well. I caught a glimpse of jealousy in her eyes as I hastened out the door. I stepped outside and breathed and gulped and cleansed my head of the foul odor of stale cigarettes and loaded pants. It was sweet sweet nectar.

Oh, and I ended up with Cranberry Red with Gold Sparkly gloss.