Sunday, June 23, 2013

Nails of Doom

I recently went on vacation to Fort Lauderdale with my kids.  I had a great time, except for one horrific event that marred my vacation and possibly scarred me for life.  My daughter insisted that we get manicure/pedicures.  Notice that I did not say “mani/pedis” because those “words” are right up there with “bestie” and “totes adorbs” on the top of my list of new non-words that are like nails on chalkboard to my brain.

You may be thinking, what the hell Katie?  Getting a manicure is so relaxing!  I vehemently disagree.  Going to one of these torture chambers we call “nail salons” is just like going to the dentist.  Salon indeed!  At these bright pink dungeons, it’s totally socially acceptable for tiny, angry women to manhandle you with sharp instruments, cutting, and scraping your personal areas with an unbridled rage while making fun of your cuticles in another language that you don’t know because you were born in ‘merica, the land of not learning anyone else’s language because your parents taught you that everyone else would just have to learn English.  Dear generation before mine, you suck and did nothing to prepare us for these situations or ever traveling outside of the Midwest.

This was only my second manicure (I was socially pressured into being a big, dumb girl when I was in a wedding, even though I didn’t get one for my own wedding), so I am totally lost in these places.  I picked out a polish that inexplicably created a furious uproar among the nail technicians.  They had to go get the front office girl to explain to me that I should have read the sign, because there is an upcharge for this particular polish being that it is “the latest in nail technology,” even though I had no protest over the price.  If my kid wasn’t already trapped in a seat I would have run out of the place screaming, traumatized from social anxiety over not knowing how to be a girl, right then and there.  I explained to them that I could pay the $3 upcharge, after all, I was already paying $70 for my daughter and I, and the technicians all returned to torturing their respective detainees.  Thank the dear, sweet lord.

The rest of the visit consisted of me going through the mental torture of having to sit in one place for an hour while one woman vigorously massaged my calves and another woman told me several times that my son (who was sitting in the waiting room) looks like a girl while wickedly cackling.  They took my payment while holding recently sharpened nail scissors in a stabbing position so I ended the experience by over tipping these evil geniuses so my daughter would make it to see her 13th birthday.

When we finally escaped, thankfully with only minor, bloody nail bed injuries, I posted a picture of the results of this appalling event so I could at least get Facebook sympathy points for my trauma.  Upon looking at the picture of my hands next to my daughter’s nubile extremities, I realized that my body is quickly deteriorating and before I know it I’ll have gnarled old age-spotted hands and no one will ever want to hold them or love me ever again.  C’est la vie I guess.  (I don’t even know what that means.  Go ‘merica!)