2 posts tagged “me”

My friend N is to be married in a few months, and during this past week she had arranged for all of her bridesmaids to go out for a day at the spa. I can't tell you how much I enjoyed the first couple of hours of it -- long massages, facial treatments (whose components could've included manure and eye of newt -- but you don't care because it feels buttery on your skin), and soaking in hot tubs filled with soaps and moisturizers. I'm not what I'd call a 'girly-girl' but I was definitely enjoying the grass on the other side that day.

The last things on the tour-de-spa were manicures and pedicures. Now, I can't make my mind up about acrylic nails. They look beautiful on people whose hands suit them. But I can't help but think in the back of my head, that every little bacteria in the world is rejoicing at the party that's just about to take place under what's-her-face's nails. Much like a schizophrenic, the image in my mind starts to muddle the original image of long pristinely kept nails into that of talons akin to most birds of prey. I often start to think about a cashier I once met while shopping who could barely push the buttons on the register because of the length of her acrylic nails.

Bridezilla, that day, had decided we were all going to get the same French-tipped acrylic manicure. When I had come to my senses, after my short daydream about the dark beyond, I had attempted to stave her wish off by saying, "You know, I've got work tomorrow and they don't really allow these...". "Oh COME ON! You'll ruin the group dynamic -- just get it done, and in a few days if people say something to you at work, just go somewhere and get them taken off. Simple as that." she pleaded.

Rather than imaging her smiting me with her bride-to-be wrath, I ceded to my fate and let it be done. The entire process took about 30 minutes from start to finish. Most of the time, I was talking to the little Vietnamese woman (who was diligently working on my hands) about traveling to Vietnam and other parts of southeast Asia. By the end of our conversation, I had my brand new implements of doom applied to my fingernails and N was clapping and squealing in delight.

The next 24 hours were like slow torture.

Every hand hygiene lesson that I'd sat through during my lifetime was flashing through my head. For what ever reason, this made me sweat a little. As I was on my way into work that day, I started sweating a little at the thought -- slightly paranoid that every other nurse I'd encounter on the train was going to be staring at these things on my fingers. I felt like I had to hide them from the paranoia I'd built up. Another nurse had boarded the train just after I did, and as she glossed through her morning paper I noticed that she too had acrylic nails. The thought was slightly comforting, I thought to myself, "Maybe no one will notice I have them at all."

At work, I felt like moron. All day long, I'd have difficulty doing this or that because of my claws. Typing was ridiculous -- it was a 30 minute sojourn of typing and backspacing all the mistakes I'd made because of all the sliding my fingers were doing because of these little acrylic pieces-of-shit. Drawing blood was even out of the question; I'd stick someone three or four times just to get what I normally could've in one just because I couldn't really hold the needle properly or stick around  or under my nails. By the end of the day I was resolved to get them taken off as soon as I could muster the strength and courage to find a nail place that would do so.

I imagined that a place that does nails is filled with nothing but a relaxing atmosphere where you can soak your hands and feet and forget your worries. Truth be told, I think the experience is just the opposite. As I entered the nail place I'd found next to the trusty gas station, I was greeted by dozens of masked women and men. Strangely enough, what seemed like an awkward entrance reminded me of my days in Japan where almost everyone wore the mask to protect you from their colds or from inhaling all the pollution. At the nail place, I couldn't figure out why they were being used. Too many nail shavings flying off peoples hands and feet maybe?

A small Asian man ushered me to his nail station and after I had told him, dramatically might I add, why I could no longer stand the acrylic nails he began clipping them off. It wasn't enough that they just snapped off however. In order to peel the acrylic from my nails, he had to wedge another unglazed acrylic nail between my own and the layer of sheet rock that had formed on top of it. The first one wasn't so bad -- it's what you'd expect having your fingernails pulled out of their 'sockets' feels like. 9 more fingers later and I was about to cry from the war-torn state my fingers appeared to be in. At that point, he whipped out and revved a small electric sander (which I imagined would be fit for electrical or more carpentry uses...) and took to my weathered nails with it. Fifteen minutes of jaw-grinding action later and he was applying a glossy shellack and the color nail polish I had thankfully remembered to bring. And so ended my first, and last, experience with acrylic nails.