I am leaving town tomorrow to do a business thing, and—per my usual routine, which includes neglecting myself entirely, until doing so will make me look like a homeless person has wandered into a conference—yesterday and today I took care of making myself look like someone who gives a damn, again.
Yesterday, I got a manicure and a pedicure. The last time I did that was… right before Otto and I got married. I am not so much a “regular nails” kind of gal. But I got one of those Groupon deals to do it cheap, and thought it might be a nice pick-me-up before my trip, so off I went.
I found the salon, which is the good news. And the woman who did my nails was VERY VERY VERY nice. Like, grandma nice. BLESS HER HEART kind of nice, really.
That is where the good nail news ends, however.
Apparently this salon has only recently (like, in the last month) started offering nail services, and the group coupon thing was to drive some business in. Fair enough, right? Absolutely, except that their “nail station” was slightly larger than the one I recall Chickadee setting up in the bathroom once when she was 7.
They had approximately ten different shades of polish from which to choose. Well, okay, I was getting this done on the cheap, no need to complain or be upset. I could find something there. I picked two colors and sat down.
The manicure was fairly uneventful, though I did watch her miss the sides of my nails several times. I was getting a neutral, sheer polish and I began to wonder if she could see it. But, again, whatever. She finished my hands and I waited for her to take me to a pedicure station elsewhere in the shop, as we’d been sort of wedged into a corner at a little table. But the “station” turned out to be a seat on the couch with a fancy bucket in front of it. She filled said bucket with a few scoops of frou-frou soaking salts and water from the bathroom sink, via a few trips with a plastic pitcher. KLASSY. I then sat on the couch WITH MY FEET IN A BUCKET and removed them for her to prop up on a little sawhorse thingie to do my nails.
There was no lotion. No callous-sanding. Basically I was allowed to soak in a bucket and then be painted. I think if I had paid full price I would’ve been livid, but at the bargain rate I’d procured my certificate, it was hard to be too annoyed.
(Besides, I saved my annoyance for when I got home and promptly smeared one of my nails.)
ANYWAY, today I went out to have my hair cut and colored, because, again, I like to do things like that every six months whether I have four inches of gray roots or not. (Yeah. I totally did.) And I love my stylist to pieces, not the least of which because she never yells at me for only coming in a couple of times a year. And I thought to myself, SELF, TODAY IS GOING TO BE AWESOME.
Because I love my stylist. And because I love not looking homeless anymore.
Now, usually when I go to my stylist, I drive around looking for parking until it becomes clear that the parking gods hate me, and then I drive over to a nearby parking garage, and then I end up RUNNING to my appointment and showing up late. But TODAY there was a space on the street RIGHT THERE, and I figured the 2-hour maximum would just work out perfectly, really. Never mind that I have a history of parking tickets when it comes to my hair, because TODAY WOULD BE DIFFERENT.
I was dyed. And trimmed. And then I prepared for the ultimate luxury—she dries and flat-irons my hair for me, which (I don’t have to tell any fellow curly girls) is almost as good as sex. (No, I am not exaggerating. Someone else making my hair shiny and pretty and stick-straight? IT’S THAT GOOD.)
Only, I don’t know what was going on, today. As she dried my hair, she kept whacking me with the round brush. Not intentionally. I mean, I don’t think it was intentional. But she’d yank out a section of hair, dry it, and then WHACK the brush would smack me on the shoulder or back as she moved on. The salon was busy and I think she was in a hurry. But after about the fifth or sixth time, I said, “Um, have I been bad? Is that why you keep hitting me with the brush?”
“Do I?” she said, all surprise. “I’m so sorry!”
“That’s okay,” I said, and went back to my magazine.
THWACK, the brush hit me again. I looked up; my stylist was still working on my hair, but also giving instructions to her assistant. Ooookay. I briefly considered turning my head so that she might, I don’t know, hit me in the jaw, instead, but I decided against it.
I was ready to be good and miffed—I was—but then she flat-ironed me and I was all, “I forgive you, baby, you’re the only one for me.” Because there is just very little I like more than having smooth, shiny hair. Ahhhhhhh.
My appointment ran 15 minutes over the parking meter. I resisted the urge to run outside; I figured if I was going to get a ticket, I was going to get a ticket. But MIRACULOUSLY I hadn’t gotten a ticket.
Most people would be delighted by this turn of events. Sure, it was a so-so “pampering” experience, yesterday, but today my hair looks fabulous and I didn’t even get a ticket. I’m pretty sure the majority of folks would consider that a win.
But because I’m me, now I’m just convinced my plane is going to crash tomorrow.
At least I’ll leave behind a well-coiffed corpse.