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day 14: the professional
Jul. 7th, 2008 11:05 pmDay 14: the professional
“What, is this some kind of a joke?” The manicurist looked down at my hand and then looked back up at me- she truly did seem to hope that it would be a jest. I thought it was incredibly tactless, but I smiled and did the nice polite thing. Let her think she was being punked, as long as I got my manicure.
“No, I really would like a manicure. I’ve had a little bad luck in trying to do them at home.” I only realized how that sounded after the fact, when she looked up at me as the color faded under her heavy foundation. “No! No, that’s not how I lost my fingers. I was in a car accident. I mean, I just have trouble holding the brushes.”
“Oh. Oh.” She tries desperately to project a façade that the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. I was personally very tempted to ask just how a home manicuring accident could leave someone with only eight fingers, just to see what an expert in the field might think of, but I figured that she was uncomfortable enough. She was tactless, yes, but she was also stuck giving foot rubs to idle old ladies every day, and that is enough of hell for any one person to suffer, at least in my books.
She finally took a seat, pulled back her hair, and seemed to slip into a more professional persona. She picked up my undamaged left hand first, and then seemed to think the better of it. “Are you left or right handed?”
“I’m naturally a righty, but it’s pretty much the same to me these days. I still write with my right hand mostly.”
“Then I’ll start with the left,” she declared. I am almost certain that if I’d said I was left handed, she would have made the same decision. I made a silent vow not to come back here. It’s one thing for me to think my right hand looks ugly. I don’t need to take it from people I’m paying to fawn on me. She started to dab a cotton pad over the nails of my hand with something pungent smelling, making sure to get into all the little crannies.
“Been a while since the last manicure, I see?” she asked. I only suppose it was a question.
“Actually,” I mentioned lightly, “I’ve never had one. They never seemed worth the money.” Really, it was more that I was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of having someone act as my servant in such a personal way. I dislike massages for the same reasons. She finished dabbing and stuck my hand in a bowl of warm water. She took my hand in both of hers and started to stroke slowly and gently down from the wrist in alternating waves. It felt lovely.
Of course, I really could get used to servants. If I had to.
She finished her unexpected massage by rubbing a rose-scented lotion into my hand and kneading the base of my thumb. When she was finished, she dabbed something (which was most certainly not nail polish) at the base of each nail bed before enshrouding my hand in what I can only call saran wrap.
Pondering my hand’s new status as a leftover, I almost did not see her hesitation as she began on my right hand. The moment of truth had arrived.
“What, is this some kind of a joke?” The manicurist looked down at my hand and then looked back up at me- she truly did seem to hope that it would be a jest. I thought it was incredibly tactless, but I smiled and did the nice polite thing. Let her think she was being punked, as long as I got my manicure.
“No, I really would like a manicure. I’ve had a little bad luck in trying to do them at home.” I only realized how that sounded after the fact, when she looked up at me as the color faded under her heavy foundation. “No! No, that’s not how I lost my fingers. I was in a car accident. I mean, I just have trouble holding the brushes.”
“Oh. Oh.” She tries desperately to project a façade that the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. I was personally very tempted to ask just how a home manicuring accident could leave someone with only eight fingers, just to see what an expert in the field might think of, but I figured that she was uncomfortable enough. She was tactless, yes, but she was also stuck giving foot rubs to idle old ladies every day, and that is enough of hell for any one person to suffer, at least in my books.
She finally took a seat, pulled back her hair, and seemed to slip into a more professional persona. She picked up my undamaged left hand first, and then seemed to think the better of it. “Are you left or right handed?”
“I’m naturally a righty, but it’s pretty much the same to me these days. I still write with my right hand mostly.”
“Then I’ll start with the left,” she declared. I am almost certain that if I’d said I was left handed, she would have made the same decision. I made a silent vow not to come back here. It’s one thing for me to think my right hand looks ugly. I don’t need to take it from people I’m paying to fawn on me. She started to dab a cotton pad over the nails of my hand with something pungent smelling, making sure to get into all the little crannies.
“Been a while since the last manicure, I see?” she asked. I only suppose it was a question.
“Actually,” I mentioned lightly, “I’ve never had one. They never seemed worth the money.” Really, it was more that I was deeply uncomfortable with the idea of having someone act as my servant in such a personal way. I dislike massages for the same reasons. She finished dabbing and stuck my hand in a bowl of warm water. She took my hand in both of hers and started to stroke slowly and gently down from the wrist in alternating waves. It felt lovely.
Of course, I really could get used to servants. If I had to.
She finished her unexpected massage by rubbing a rose-scented lotion into my hand and kneading the base of my thumb. When she was finished, she dabbed something (which was most certainly not nail polish) at the base of each nail bed before enshrouding my hand in what I can only call saran wrap.
Pondering my hand’s new status as a leftover, I almost did not see her hesitation as she began on my right hand. The moment of truth had arrived.
