So, I got a manicure today. The only other time I have gotten a manicure was when I was 11 or something. My mom took me to the salon where we got haircuts, only that day we were there to get my nails done. I remember the paint was pink, a light shade, and I felt very grown up. I don’t remember there being any special reason why I got my nails done. It was just nice. But that was the last time I got my nails done. I think I might like being the kind of person who gets manicures (i.e. rich), but it’s never been a priority for me.
But today, I had a reason. Tomorrow my hands are going to be photographed up close for some kind of church graphic Christmas thing. I don’t know. I think I’m going to be holding an apple. I’m fairly excited about this. My hands have never gotten any attention from anyone else–and they don’t get any attention from me on a regular basis. Hence, the manicure.
I went to a little place next to Wal-Mart, and when I walked in around 2:00 this afternoon I was the only one there. I felt awkward. I was trying to pretend that I did this regularly. It seemed like some kind of girly thing I should know how to do, by instinct or whatever. Hello. Sign in? Oh, okay. No polish, thanks.
The woman began filing my nails (rounded, please, I was warned to ask for that), pausing only to switch on the television. A soap opera was on, and I glanced up at it every now and then. Someone had died. Oh, wait. I know those names. He died? I used to watch soaps when I was 16, and I figured out that I used to watch this one (though it wasn’t my favorite). I went back to watching my hands. He was really old anyway. And that was a long time ago.
It struck me, as she was dousing my fingers with various types of solutions, that I wouldn’t know when the manicure was over. What step was the last step? She pulled out some lotion and started rubbing my arms and hands (which alarmed me at first, but felt remarkably good). When she was done with that, she stood up. Surely that was all? She walked across the room, was fiddling with something. Should I stand up? Make my way to the cash register up front? I imagined her wondering what I was doing. She would speak in Vietnamese or Korean or whatever (sorry, I know it’s bad, but I couldn’t tell) to the man sitting in the corner–what is she doing? Why is she still here?
But she came back with a warm washcloth and started rubbing it on my hands and arms. Okay, guess it’s not over yet. When she finished, she started picking up her utensils (all kinds of cutting, scraping, and sanding types of things) and the towel, and then she told me how much it would be. Phew. That was a pretty good sign that the manicure was over. I stood up, paid, and left, walking the way I imagined someone who got regular manicures (even the cheap, Wal-Mart shopping plaza kind) would walk. Casual. Entitled. Girly.
Of course, I’ve been looking at my hands all day since then.
Manicure
So, I got a manicure today. The only other time I have gotten a manicure was when I was 11 or something. My mom took me to the salon where we got haircuts, only that day we were there to get my nails done. I remember the paint was pink, a light shade, and I felt very grown up. I don’t remember there being any special reason why I got my nails done. It was just nice. But that was the last time I got my nails done. I think I might like being the kind of person who gets manicures (i.e. rich), but it’s never been a priority for me.
But today, I had a reason. Tomorrow my hands are going to be photographed up close for some kind of church graphic Christmas thing. I don’t know. I think I’m going to be holding an apple. I’m fairly excited about this. My hands have never gotten any attention from anyone else–and they don’t get any attention from me on a regular basis. Hence, the manicure.
I went to a little place next to Wal-Mart, and when I walked in around 2:00 this afternoon I was the only one there. I felt awkward. I was trying to pretend that I did this regularly. It seemed like some kind of girly thing I should know how to do, by instinct or whatever. Hello. Sign in? Oh, okay. No polish, thanks.
The woman began filing my nails (rounded, please, I was warned to ask for that), pausing only to switch on the television. A soap opera was on, and I glanced up at it every now and then. Someone had died. Oh, wait. I know those names. He died? I used to watch soaps when I was 16, and I figured out that I used to watch this one (though it wasn’t my favorite). I went back to watching my hands. He was really old anyway. And that was a long time ago.
It struck me, as she was dousing my fingers with various types of solutions, that I wouldn’t know when the manicure was over. What step was the last step? She pulled out some lotion and started rubbing my arms and hands (which alarmed me at first, but felt remarkably good). When she was done with that, she stood up. Surely that was all? She walked across the room, was fiddling with something. Should I stand up? Make my way to the cash register up front? I imagined her wondering what I was doing. She would speak in Vietnamese or Korean or whatever (sorry, I know it’s bad, but I couldn’t tell) to the man sitting in the corner–what is she doing? Why is she still here?
But she came back with a warm washcloth and started rubbing it on my hands and arms. Okay, guess it’s not over yet. When she finished, she started picking up her utensils (all kinds of cutting, scraping, and sanding types of things) and the towel, and then she told me how much it would be. Phew. That was a pretty good sign that the manicure was over. I stood up, paid, and left, walking the way I imagined someone who got regular manicures (even the cheap, Wal-Mart shopping plaza kind) would walk. Casual. Entitled. Girly.
Of course, I’ve been looking at my hands all day since then.