I bet you didn’t know this, but I have a list of things I want
to do before turning 40 and getting a manicure is one of them.
I bet you didn’t know this, but I have a list of things I want to do before turning 40 and getting a manicure is one of them.
A bit superficial? Sure. But, as always, please hear me out, and let me explain.
I’ve always been the type of person who considers Women Who Get Manicures in the same sort of league as Women Who Visit Day Spas and Women Who Get Brazilian Waxes. Meanwhile, I consider myself more at home in the category of Women Who Groom Their Nails by Biting off the Tips. But now, due to reasons too embarrassing and self-centered to get into here, I’ve decided to upgrade to a high maintenance category.
The first step, of course, is choosing the right nail place. This isn’t as easy as you’d think. This is because where I live there’s a nail place on every block. They all look the same, are called roughly the same thing, and are run by people who are related to each other as if they all belong to one big, giant Manicure Mafia. (Which, of course, I mean in a good way.)
So, like any savvy consumer I spent days evaluating and comparing quality and prices, taking copious notes and asking pointed questions, like “What, exactly, is your stand on lime green?” Then I finally chose a place based on the color scheme of the chairs, and it’s proximity to a coffee place and cheap shoe store.
And I’d like to say that I went in, sat down, got my nails done and that was the end of it. And in a perfect world that would be true. But not so in my world. Little did I suspect that, once inside the shop, there will be sorts of mind-boggling decisions. Like, say, acrylic, silk, or gel? American or French? Yellow topcoat or pink? Paper or plastic? And on and on.
To make things even more hideous, the nail place was filled with the sort of people who look like they know exactly what sort of manicure they want and, as an extra added discomfort, are all young, well-dressed, and attractive. It’s the kind of nightmare you think always happens to other people, but never to you.
“What kind do you want?” the manicurist asked in the sort of tone that insinuated she knew I was a big, fat Nail Biting Slacker.
“Do you have anything in a gold lame?” I asked. OK, judging from the look on the manicurist, who clearly wasn’t around during the Disco years in the 1970s, maybe it wasn’t a particularly posh or sophisticated thing to say, but it was the best I could come up with under such pressure.
Then, just as I was contemplating calling the whole thing off and making a break for the door, a miracle happened. Right there in my head, the entire last season of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy came flooding back. I blurted out: “Clear coat with white tips, please.”
The rest of the hour was a blur of acrylic, clear coats and strained small talk. In the end I had something called a French Manicure, which I’m not sure what makes it French, exactly, except that it’s more expensive than the American version.
However, the truly mind-boggling thing about all this is that, despite all this effort, my nails look almost exactly like how they looked before. Only shinier.
Oh OK, I’m sure there’s a big fat lesson in here somewhere. Maybe it’s that I should’ve picked some sort of color, perhaps something in a candy apple red. Or maybe it’s that a person shouldn’t hold themselves to such superficial standards. Or maybe, just maybe it’s that I need to change nail places.
Whatever the reason, at least now I can cross “getting a manicure” off my “Things to do Before 40” list. Which, by the way, is also my explanation when my husband sees the checkbook. Sneaky? Well, maybe.
But, hey, just as they say about aging, it’s all a matter of perspective.
