Scenes from a nail salon.
Disclaimer: The nail salon I frequent is in Beverly Hills, not because of its chi-chi location but rather because two years ago, it was located across the street from my place of summer employment, thereby making it super-convenient to get touch-ups during my lunch breaks. They also do the best $20 french pedicure I've gotten so far, and they don't give me weird looks when I specify Essie's Ballet Slippers for the tip and Mademoiselle for the base. (Believe me, it looks just like your natural nail, but better.) For these two reasons, I will return faithfully, even though it is now rather out of my way. Yes, it might not seem like a big investment if you spend $20 elsewhere for a bad pedicure - but think about it. If you get a bad pedicure, you have to go in even sooner to fix your toes, and then you end up spending more money than if you had initially just gone to a tried and true place. Plus, people at other salons think I'm crazy if I request my very specific pedicure colours. I've actually had people ignore me and do what they wanted anyway. What happened to the customer always being right? Maybe I don't want fake white tips.
Anyway, because of it's prime location, you get a lot of interesting people in there. A nice mix of people with too much time on their hands (that sadly includes me), lots of plastic surgery and collagen and Botox, tight tight outfits, expensive handbags and sunglasses and car keys, big bling-bling jewelry, etcetc. It is simply unbeatable for people watching. Take, for example, the two people I was sandwiched between yesterday.
To my left, you have an elderly man, maybe in his late 70s or so. He is impeccably dressed, with a very nice navy blue blazer - complete with pocket kerchief - in the style that only older distinguished men can pull off. He has a very kind face, like that of a simply adorable yet slightly forgetful grandfather. He has been escorted in by a woman of about equal age - her lips overly collagened, in a proper mint green "ladies who lunch" outfit, matching pashmina draped over one shoulder. He has been sat down in the salon chair, and told by this woman (in very clearly enunciated Spanish) to stay in the salon when he is done as she and another lady are going to go to Saks and to not leave under any circumstances, they will return shortly. He is no novice to the world of manicures for men - in stilted yet precise English, he instructs the manicurist to, "File the nails to an oval. Cut the cuticles very very close and clean. Two layers of clear polish." He appends to this a rather odd request, "Do you have somebody here who can clean my ears for me?" Unfortunately, they do not, as this is not a full-service salon. But his nails are filed and polished to his liking, his ears left alone, and he is later escorted over to a sofa to wait for the two women. Like the adorable old man he is, he falls asleep, and wakens only when one of the women wakes him up, kissing her hand as she rouses him.
That was a rather sweet picture. Now, take the guy to my right.
In he comes, swaggering, an aura of expectancy surrounding him. That is the best way to describe his walk - he's a swaggerer, and with certainly good reason! He is still dressed in his scrubs and is wearing a white lab jacket over them. On the upper left hand side under his name, the words "plastic surgeon" are proudly embroidered. He is tall, perhaps in his late-30s as he's starting very slightly to bald. Haven't we heard of Propecia yet, darling? My boyfriend in his early-20s is already on it, as a preventative measure. Digression aside, did I mention that he's wearing ultra-trendy sunglasses, a mix between aviators and wrap-arounds, that he does not deign to take off at any point? Perhaps he has them on so he can perpetually mentally evaluate what new-and-improved body parts he would give others as he strolls through life. And so, a-struttin' in he comes, sinking himself into the chair to my right, and immediately, he starts drumming his fingers on the table. Everyone's busy tending to other customers, but no, that does not matter. Mr. Plastic Surgeon is here, and he is busybusy, and must be taken care of immediately. After all, he is one of those Very Important People. Too bad my nails were done at that point, I would have loved to have observed him further.
A rather interesting slice of life, if I do say so myself.
Anyway, because of it's prime location, you get a lot of interesting people in there. A nice mix of people with too much time on their hands (that sadly includes me), lots of plastic surgery and collagen and Botox, tight tight outfits, expensive handbags and sunglasses and car keys, big bling-bling jewelry, etcetc. It is simply unbeatable for people watching. Take, for example, the two people I was sandwiched between yesterday.
To my left, you have an elderly man, maybe in his late 70s or so. He is impeccably dressed, with a very nice navy blue blazer - complete with pocket kerchief - in the style that only older distinguished men can pull off. He has a very kind face, like that of a simply adorable yet slightly forgetful grandfather. He has been escorted in by a woman of about equal age - her lips overly collagened, in a proper mint green "ladies who lunch" outfit, matching pashmina draped over one shoulder. He has been sat down in the salon chair, and told by this woman (in very clearly enunciated Spanish) to stay in the salon when he is done as she and another lady are going to go to Saks and to not leave under any circumstances, they will return shortly. He is no novice to the world of manicures for men - in stilted yet precise English, he instructs the manicurist to, "File the nails to an oval. Cut the cuticles very very close and clean. Two layers of clear polish." He appends to this a rather odd request, "Do you have somebody here who can clean my ears for me?" Unfortunately, they do not, as this is not a full-service salon. But his nails are filed and polished to his liking, his ears left alone, and he is later escorted over to a sofa to wait for the two women. Like the adorable old man he is, he falls asleep, and wakens only when one of the women wakes him up, kissing her hand as she rouses him.
That was a rather sweet picture. Now, take the guy to my right.
In he comes, swaggering, an aura of expectancy surrounding him. That is the best way to describe his walk - he's a swaggerer, and with certainly good reason! He is still dressed in his scrubs and is wearing a white lab jacket over them. On the upper left hand side under his name, the words "plastic surgeon" are proudly embroidered. He is tall, perhaps in his late-30s as he's starting very slightly to bald. Haven't we heard of Propecia yet, darling? My boyfriend in his early-20s is already on it, as a preventative measure. Digression aside, did I mention that he's wearing ultra-trendy sunglasses, a mix between aviators and wrap-arounds, that he does not deign to take off at any point? Perhaps he has them on so he can perpetually mentally evaluate what new-and-improved body parts he would give others as he strolls through life. And so, a-struttin' in he comes, sinking himself into the chair to my right, and immediately, he starts drumming his fingers on the table. Everyone's busy tending to other customers, but no, that does not matter. Mr. Plastic Surgeon is here, and he is busybusy, and must be taken care of immediately. After all, he is one of those Very Important People. Too bad my nails were done at that point, I would have loved to have observed him further.
A rather interesting slice of life, if I do say so myself.
posted at 11:00
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