Tales about my nails

I went to the nail salon today to get my fake fingernails filled and all the dead skin scraped off my heels before Christmas. There were only 3 technicians working when I walked in, two women and one man. The girl behind the counter told me to sit down and since one of the women was plucking her eyebrows and the other one was talking on the phone you can probably guess who she sent over.

I hate having the guy do my nails and this is the 3rd time it’s happened at this salon. He doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak pot sticker so we basically spend the next 50 minutes in awkward silence while he holds my hands.

Today his Black and Decker super fast fingernail sander thingy cut my cuticle and I started bleeding. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the cooties that were probably entering my skin via the exposed germ superhighway and wondered once again why I keep taking my life into my own hands for the sake of vanity.

I really needed a pedicure, because my heels looked like those of a ninety year old woman plus I wanted to have my toenails painted with OPI’s I’m Not Really a Waitress because it’s red and sparkly and perfect for Christmas. But when the nail technician who was done plucking her eyebrows started walking toward me, I recognized her as the one that almost broke my tibia last summer during the “massage portion” of the pedicure. I still have a Pavlovian pain response when I see her so I decided I’d go to a different salon in a couple days where hopefully I can get a pedicure from someone who is not a sadist.

I put some Neosporin on my cuticle when I got home and prayed that gangrene would not set in. Maybe someday when I catch something worse than funky toenail I’ll quit going to the nail salon. But until then, mama’s still got some grooming to do.