Pretty Beauty Nail Salon. BLOG 3: A Fly on the Wall

Its half past two and the plaza is buzzing with infectious excitement. This piazza in particular, is one of immense popularity and this fact paired with a rather ineffective parking layout has got me looking, no hunting for a spot. Ah ha! On days like this, a pull through parking space is just what a girl in need of some therapy can appreciate. You know, it really is the little things in life. With one quick honk from my horn at a cyan colored Prius eyeing my spot, I maneuver in and throw my baby in park. I pop my door open, take a step outside. In one sweeping motion I release my jingling keys from the ignition, slam my door closed, and alarm my auto. The sound of my sandals slapping the pavement accompanies the squeals of four year olds frolicking in front of the frozen yogurt shop and their respective mothers chiding a jumble of reproachful but all at once soothing remarks at them. Finally at my destination, I take a swift step in the door and am immediately comforted by an old, familiar smell. Ahh, the nail salon. There really is no aroma like the scent that greets you in the nail salon. A blend of fragrant chemicals, nail polish, and assorted ladies eau de parfumes drifts lazily through the shop and I am immediately transported back to good memories in salons with my mother. This particular nail salon, Proffesionail, oh the literary giants that reside here, contains a little more sophistication and elegance than your usual run of the mill basics of such an establishment. This is exemplified in the carefully chosen pinkish taupe wall colors and peculiarly placed greek-inspired statues and wall hangings. Clean and tidy, this sanctum houses a variety of women seeking rest, relaxation, and a healthy dose of luxurious pampering. Ladies line the walls, reclined in such tranquil positions as shop employee’s work diligently at their feet and hands. As I am seated at my respective whirling foot bath, I am made welcome by the low, reverberating rumble and hum of these odd vessels of repose. The slow churning of blue water below me reminds me inexplicably of our own household porcelain thrones, alas I indulge myself. Much like a pair lobsters dropping into a pot of scalding water, the lady beside me plunges her feet into her bath and with an unabashed sigh of relief she sinks a bit lower and more snuggly into her chair. Smelling faintly of bergamot and jasmine and wearing what looks like might be every piece of jewelry she owns dripping from her neck and fingers she whips open the pages of the latest gossip rag, screaming headlines in bold face letters of Brad and Angelina’s impending marital doom, Obama’s latest “failure” as president, and new easy-to-learn jujitsu moves targeted to tone and shape your ass. Along the wall is a barrage of nail polish color in every hue imaginable. Such a display begs the question, “What kind of mood are you in today?” Well me, I’m in the mood for some fire engine red. The lady beside me is obviously in a coppery disposition, and beside her Miss Telenovela with the hoop earrings and strong brow is feeling a bit more geometric today. Scattered among the sounds of manicurist’s delicate jade bracelets clinking, and occasional blackberry text message dinging, a variety of separate dialogues intertwine. Talk of deadlines, significant others’ receding hairlines, and snippets of discussion in other languages litter what could be an amazing shared listening of one of the greatest songs ever recorded: The Eagles, Hotel California. The smell of the quaint Italian restaurant across the way wafts into the shop and momentarily the taste of penne portobello lingers on my tongue leaving me hungry and distracted. My taste buds whipped into such a fervor accompanied by hunger pains make me feel like abdicating my pedi-throne, mid rub-down and running over for some chow. Tammy, my loyal pedicurist, seems to disagree. Knowingly, she starts to coat my toes with “Heat Wave No. 5”, leaving me powerless and at the mercy of wet toenail paint. Nine toes and a layer of fast drying topcoat later, I’m gathering my things, paying upfront and walking, no gliding out the door. It’s a day after one solitary Valentines and yet I’m still feeling great. This nail polish makes me feel sassy. It makes me wanna call everyone ‘girl ‘, or better yet ‘sistah friend’. This color has got me feeling like running for president. It’s a sensation I get the feeling a lot of women share when they leave the salon, and for that I know there really is truth in the simple pleasures of life. Well, right on, right on.