My nail lady is on maternity leave so whenever I make an appointment for a fill, it's really a gamble. I want my nails square. I want them short. And damn it I want to be in and out in 30 minutes. The only happy ending I want is to make it into my car without smudging. But no matter how long I sit at those damn UV dryers, I never get a happy ending. Every. Two. Weeks.
SO, a new-to-me lady did my nails yesterday. She looked relatively harmless. "Hi, how are you?" Which is routine. I dumped all of my 6 colors on her station, looked her dead in the eye and said "This is a big decision for me." To which she half laughed and decided to look at my colors in awe. Listen lady, they are MY colors on MY nails. You paint. I pay. GOT IT? Do not make this harder than it has to be.
She got to work. So far, so good. We were filing with the electric tool. We had an onlooker. They spoke their language (probably about how I looked like I needed a wax, like on my whole face. I'm Greek. Take it easy.) and I just kept staring at my color choices. This week, I put myself out there. I narrowed it down to three. Black (which I would only do if she cut my nails SHORT). Blue (which I would only do ... well no, it was just pretty in the bottle). And purple (which I have done every week since I deemed it my favorite color). It was black or purple. And it all depended on whether she cut my nails short enough. It was on.
Sure enough, she cut them short. I could finally do black. And for some reason the words "I would like a design" slipped out of my mouth before I could swallow them. I know. "Design is beautiful." But I? Am 25. I don't like hearts. Or flowers. Or things that don't match. $5? No problem. Design away.
OUCH. I think I am bleeding. I look down at my thumb-cuticle on my right hand to see a small cut. Nothing out of the ordinary. It happens. It stings. Nail lady looked down at what I kept staring at, "So sorry." No worries design lady. No worries.
She finished what she was doing; filing, shaping. And just as I started to feel excited about my design, she pulled out this small bottle containing a blue liquid. Let me just tell you ... it wasn't Nyquil. She put some on a swab and held my thumb up in the air like it was an article of infectious disease. "Is this going to hurrrrrrrr- HOOOOOLLLLY SHIT!" To which she replied, "Anti-septic. Make bleeding stop." REALLY?
My eyes stayed welled up with tears for a good ten minutes. Was that really necessary? It stopped bleeding ten minutes ago. "Go wash your hands." For fear that she would add more torture liquid to my thumb, I darted over to the sink. Still holding back tears. Who cries at the nail salon?
I sat back down, paid her, and hesitantly gave her a $5 tip. Paint time. Black with sparkles. OPI calls it "Baby, it's "coal" outside." I'm sorry. I find this title funny. Say it out loud. To yourself. You see? Funny.
She begins the design to which I say, "Uhm, yeah, hi. I don't like flowers. And I despise hearts. No flowers. No hearts." To which she nods and adds decor to my nails. Just two nails. FIVE BUCKS. I didn't dare look. Until she was done. And then? "Wow. These are gorgeous! Thank you so much!" I walked over to the UV dryers and sat down as she plopped my Coach bag on the floor next to me. You know that aforementioned $5? Multiply by 100 and never plop Le Coach Bag on Le Floor. EVER.
After six minutes I decided I'm dry enough. I thanked design lady profusely. Picked up my bag and headed out to go food shopping.
I got home an hour later, unloaded the car, and sat on my couch. I looked at my gorgeous, live-on-the-wild-side nails only to see one nail smudged. ONE nail. ONE nail with a design.
So I decided that today is the day. To find out who is getting that happy ending and wonder if I will ever get mine.
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