Blog in Brief: Mani/Pedi: YOU WANT FLOWER??

Photo by PinkMoose.

I took a time out today for a little "me" time, while my hubby took the kids to an indoor trampoline haven, that apparently smelled strongly of vomit (glad I didn't go).  I hopped on my bike and rode down to the local Vietnamese nail salon, intent on getting a "Mani/Pedi".  Pedicures are fairly common on my experience list, but I am less familiar with the culture of manicures, having only ever had one or two in my life.  My profession (which involves touching people) generally prohibits long finger nails, lest I gouge out eyes or scrap away skin, and so I seldom focus on my nails.

Since I am on vacation, I thought I would splurge, and even try something completely new...a French manicure!  After I ordered it up, I had a moment of pause, as I worried that perhaps I had asked for the wrong thing, maybe something that would involve lavish nail extensions with pictures of my kids decoupaged onto them.  Fortunately, however, I did order the right style, also referred to as "white tips" by a nail-savvy young customer next to me.  This particular style involves hyper-painting the tips of the nails with a white nail polish, disturbingly similar to liquid paper.  The nails are then buffed to a high gloss with some form of soupy, clear lacquer.  Even now as I type this, the flashing tips of my nails are catching my eyes with their blinding white blur.  Something about having your nails done also makes you instinctively begin to hold up your pinkies whenever you touch stuff....thus I am dropping my "a's" pretty frequently as I type.

Typiclly, I keep my nails mostly short with a roundish crescent shape.  Whence my very petite (I noted the width of my body was easily twice hers) and heavily accented technician mumbled something which I could not make out, I nodded knowingly (having already asked her four times to repeat herself and insecure that my manicure inexperience would be revealed), thus freeing her to file my nails into blunt rectangles.  I guess this is the more fashionable way to do it.  I had an urge, when she finished, to dash out and apply for a cashiers' job at Walmart.

I proceeded to the pedicure chair, which conveniently also allowed time for my perky nails to dry. Despite holding my pinkies aloft as I attempted to turn on the built in chair massager, I inadvertently touched one of my newly painted nails up against my pants, denting the just completed paint job.  To hide my faux pas, I moved my hand to insure my nail lady couldn't see the damaged thumb, lest she scold me for my clumsiness.  (I hate being yelled at in Vietnamese!)

Periodic pedicures are the staple ingredient of my foot maintenance program.  I am prone to calluses because of the activities I engage in, and I love when those ladies take the cheese grater to them, paring them down to something resembling femininity.   This must be one of the grosser parts of their job.  (The quantity of dead skin they removed used to embarrass me, but now I say, F%$^# it, I'm paying her, right?)

"YOU USE STONE IN SHOWER!!", my nail lady yelled at me, her body rocking with vigorous effort, the clumps of gloopy grey skin growing in a pile around her.  She seemed so angry that I was worried she would scrape my heels down to bone.  

"OKAY!", I shouted back, in a tone mixed with pleading surrender.  To my relief, she plunked the tool into the scalding water that swirled at my feet.  This signaled the end of her furious assault upon my leathery feet, and I gladly noted there was still some skin remaining.  More importantly, it also signaled the start of the massage portion of the service. (My personal favorite!) As she slathered brightly colored, "Birch and Mint" lotion upon my legs and feet, I zoned out, pretending to read the closed captions of the college football game, silently playing on a flat screen mounted high upon the spa wall. (I prefer not to make small talk in these situations, more so because of how difficult it was to understand what she was saying (unless of course she was yelling at me)).

I also enjoy watching what the other ladies in the salon are up to.  There were all sorts of manicure techniques being employed, including ruby red nail tips applied on the fingers of one woman.  They were being determinedly filed down into the same squared off shape as my nails.  Some ladies had their finger tips mysteriously wrapped up in miniature pieces of foil.  They were all very intent on the outcome, certain about how their nails should end up looking.  I found myself curious about their nail design choices and wondered where they had learned their preferences.

The reception man, also Vietnamese, captured my attention right from the get go.  I watched him most of all as I admired his bold clothing choices.  He wore a skin tight, netted and layered, sequined shirt, paired with D and G ultra detailed jeans, whose leather trimmed cuffs were up-turned at the ankles.  He also sported the longest toed cowboy boots I had ever seen.   The toes were so long and lifted up off of the ground, that he was having trouble walking on the tile floor.  The boots seemed to slip out from under him with each step he took, very much as if he were walking around on sand.  Despite this, he walked around a lot, as he was determined to over decorate every available surface of the salon with super tacky Christmas decor.

"PRETTY COLOR!", my tech balled at me, as she moved me from the pedicure chair towards the drying area.  (I am certain that is part of the salon's sales policy, and that in fact, she hates the neon, salmon-pink I have chosen).

"THANK YOU!", I yelled back as I settled into a chair and grabbed the latest People magazine.  I astonished myself by how absorbed I became catching up on my celebrity gossip (including the fact that Halle Barry is 46 and still smoking hot!).

My nails were well dry when I left the salon.  Relaxed, primped, and certainly polished, I jumped back upon my bike, pinkies held high, and headed for home.