Getting My Nails Done
Wed., December 19, 04:32 PM
One of my favorites, HerStory, has just written about a recent experience with a manicurist. Parts of it remind me of the stories I tell at the nail shop where U.D. takes me now. Fortunately, things are different now — or maybe we're just lucky.
Back in the “middle ages,” women went to the beauty salon, aka the hairdresser shop, to have their nails done. My mother was really into going to the hairdresser — which I hated — forcing me to go for special occasions, but whenever I asked if I should get a manicure too, she always told me I could do that myself. That was okay with me. I had nice hands, I had stopped biting my nails, and I learned to do a good, attractive manicure. Most of the nail polishes I bought, even the expensive ones, chipped after a few days, but I just repaired them myself.
When my sister got married, she dragged me to her hairdresser for a proper cut, and the proprietor treated us to free manicures. That was the first professional manicure I ever had (I think I was thirty-eight). I watched everything that woman did, and there was nothing I didn't already know about. I chose a color similar to one I had at home, 'cause my hands were going to go through a lot in the next few days, including shampooing three junior attendants. (A word of advice: if you are a member of the wedding party, do not, under any circumstances, allow your small children to participate also. I felt as if I needed six hands.) Of course, the polish chipped, and I just repaired it; I'll admit it was easier than doing a full manicure from scratch.
For the next twenty-five years or so, I just took care of my own nails. Some times were better than others; any period when my hands were constantly in water was difficult, but when I was in chemo, my nails were strong. (I had no hair, but I had terrific nails. Ha!) Like wearing makeup, good nails is part of the outfit.
What finally stopped me was my eyesight. Seeing double is bad enough; closing one eye and losing perspective is worse. I couldn't even get the brush back into the bottle. My son was about to get married, and I would not embarrass him. I went with U.D. to her nail shop and had an “overlay,” using my own color (they don't call it polish). My poor, beaten nails were short, but at least they were presentable.
The nail shop is a far cry from those beauty salons of my youth. They do manicures and pedicures, and they also do waxing, which I will never allow as long as I'm conscious. Prices are standard all over the state, so the shop of your choice is one where (1) you like the operators and (2) it is clean. I guess it's a plus if the owners are around at least some of the time. I'm not completely comfortable in there, but it's getting better (or I am).
First, I still don't like asking someone to perform a service for me that I should be able to do for myself. Every piece of independence that I lose bothers me. Second, I am truly uncomfortable that the fumes and dust are so dangerous that the operators need to be masked. (Some of them wear double masks.) I'm hearing a language that not only is not understandable, but it is nothing like the languages I do understand; sometimes I think they're talking to me, only to realize that they're on the phone. And I'm painfully aware that, once you've started using the process, you're tied to it.
So it amuses U.D. when I say, “I need a fill.” She never refuses to take me — well, she needs one too — and we try to fit them in to our complicated schedule. Sometimes it doesn't even help to make an appointment.
It was a day when Husband had his own appointment at the VA hospital. The plan was that U.D. would drop us off in the morning, I would see that Husband got some lunch and take care of other business, and she would pick us up in plenty of time to drop him at home before we went to the nail shop. Well, y'know, Murphy is always lurking. Husband went off “to the men's room” and got lost. We spent nearly an hour looking for him. When we finally found him, it was too late to drop him off, so we took him with us.
He misbehaved like a small child. We finally had to take away his cane, because he was brandishing it like a weapon. He sat there glaring at the television while we had our nails done. That was the first time the owner offered me a design. Free. I think she took pity on me.
She always does a design for me now, one finger on each hand. She shapes my nails into ovals, though most young women have them squared off these days. Even when I had to have clear polish because I was going to have surgery, she insisted on doing my design “for luck.” The nurses could look at the other fingers, she said. Actually, the nurses were charmed. The designs are free-hand, painted symmetrically. It is a pleasure to watch her work.
The chairs for manicures are comfortable; the ones for pedicures are beyond comfortable. The blowers that dry our nails are comfortably warm, and there are similar ones at the floor for toenails. My experience with nail shops is limited, but I think this one is great.
