Nailed - June 2010

It is summer, so in a bow to one of the few girlie things I do (wearing perfume being the most prominent), it’s time for a mani-pedi. Off I go to the nail salon.

Remember back in the day when people had their hair “done” on a weekly basis? My mother made me have mine “done” for my senior picture in high school, and I emerged from the rollers, the rocket ship-looking hair dryer and enough hair spray to seriously damage the ozone layer looking nothing like I actually looked on any given day in high school. I have since been immortalized in the yearbook looking the way my hair looked for three hours on that one day. But I digress. Those were the days when manicurists were all like “Madge” in those Palmolive commercials, the ones where the ladies soaked their hands in Palmolive before Madge would do their nails while they gossiped – in English.

Times have changed.

Madge is long gone, and so, for the most part, are manicurists who work in what we used to call “beauty parlors” (I believe that term had to be dropped right after my hair was “done” for the yearbook picture). We get our nails done at a nail salon, ubiquitous storefront operations that pop up, along with pizza joints, dry cleaners and Chinese take-out places, at virtually any strip mall you can find. At least in New Jersey, that is. The “nail technicians,” if that’s what we can them, all speak English as a second language, and generally work for a woman named Kim. I’m pretty sure that is a legal requirement to own and operate a nail business.

This of course reminds me of the episode of Seinfeld where Elaine was sure the nail technicians were talking about her behind her back but, in this case, in front of her face. And if Elaine were your customer, you’d talk about her, too.

The technicians, upon arriving in this country from wherever they may hail, first learn the most important English phrase in their vocabulary: “Pick a color.” This is the single biggest decision a woman can make. The choice depends on the season, the length of the nails, the age of the person getting them done (I saw a nine-year old having her nails done in a neon lime color the other day), and what we have planned, like matching the nails with a certain outfit. But that is far from the only decision. Should the finger and toenails match? Do we want a French manicure – which I fear will result in boorish behavior on the part of the technician – a gel manicure, acrylics, wraps or nail “art?” The latter consists of using tiny brushes and a million little bottles of color to create anything from a snowman to a flower to a peace sign on the nail to make it, well, artsy, I guess. We can pay extra for a spa manicure, where they apply lotion and massage the feet and hands, or we can add a special topcoat that will protect the nails even longer – even though mine almost always are ruined by the time I turn the key in the ignition of the car as I leave the salon.

I try to do this right, even though my heels hurt as they are massaged because of my plantar fasciitis, and I am ticklish, so touching my feet makes me squirm. I bring my own polish so when my nails chip 10 minutes after I get home I can retouch them. I don’t wear a watch so they can massage my hands and arms. I don the shortest capris I have, which for me is an issue since most just look like shorter long pants on my stubby little legs. I wear my flip flops, which I wear exclusively to get a pedicure, and I put my credit card and money in my pocket so I don’t have to reach into my purse to pay (the second phrase all technicians must learn upon arrival in the U.S. is, “You pay now,” which they remind you after the initial work is done but before the polish is applied).

The whole experience is quite a process, and though we pay for the service, sometimes we forget who is in charge. Once a friend of mine had a manicure and upon leaving, headed straight to another nail joint for a “color change” since she was too embarrassed to admit she hated the color she selected.

Sure, you can do this yourself, and occasionally I try, but the cuticles never cooperate and my left hand isn’t all that helpful when working on my right hand. You can tell I have done it myself when the polish is clear, which usually is meant only to keep them strong enough to last until I can get a manicure.

Between the chlorine in the pool and the ordinary wear and tear on my hands, and not even considering that my nails seem to grow much faster in the summer, my nails will look good for approximately 3 days. After that, the chips appear, the cuticles split, and, let’s face it, I have no future as a hand model. But for those three days, as Shania says, “Man, I feel like a woman.”