date: 08.27.2002
entitled: "Siss Nails"


i hope this story will be as amusing, and possibly disturbing, for you as it was for me to experience it.

i have always wondered what it would be like to receive a pedicure. although i am relavitely feminine, i am not one to seek out such services. for my birthday in december, my boyfriend, joe, purchased a gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure at a local nail salon in brooklyn. my apartment at the time was only 6 blocks away, so this was a thoughtfully convenient gesture. i never used the gift certificate until this past weekend.

we ventured into my old 'hood, east williamsburg, he to meet up with our friend, tony, and i to use my certificate and pamper my fingers and toes.

i sat in a large, elevated, cushy, vibrating chair, as the pedicurist lowered my feet into a warm, jet-streamy foot bath. It felt very awkward, as i have never felt comfortable when people looked at my feet, let alone touch them. i will skip past the description of the pedicure, for those of you who are squeamish about feet, as i am. it is not a glamorous procedure. However, i will describe the overwhelming feeling that overcame me, as i sat there. i suddenly felt as if these women were leading lives of servitude for the ladies of williamsburg. sitting hunched over on these tiny stools, staring at the soles of my feet, they spoke in their native tongue, as the girl next to me gabbed about 'how bad her feet were'. she described the gown she was to wear that evening, and debated over her choices of nail color. should she match it to the gown, or go more sheer? she eventually decided to 'go french', to which i mumbled some mindless response. i decided i would never again have someone else scrub, trim, or file my feet. why should anyone else do it, when i have easily made an every-other-day habit of it in the shower?

my manicure was next, and i have one word to describe it: pain. it was all good until the lady did my pinkies. i had to wrap band aids around them to stop the bleeding, after she had already applied nail polish remover and 5 coats of polish to my fresh wounds. i personally think cuticles are there for a reason, and that reason is NOT to rip into them with metal objects.

Afterward, i chose a seat by the window, while my nails dried, and my blood clotted. As i sat in the lime green salon with cheesy butterflies painted on the walls, i watched passersby. the salon was located on a streetcorner, and was directly above a subway station, which made for good people-watching. a scruffy, homeless man, wearing a university of michigan sweatshirt (i'm from michigan originally) caught my eye. he stumbled around, and carried a plastic bag in his left hand. for some reason, he reached the corner across the street and came to a halt. my gaze became an intense, anticipatory stare, as he stood there, motionless. then, like a flash of lighting, projectile vomit came spewing from his face, as people walking by swerved to avoid the stream of puke, disgusted. my mouth dropped open, and i had to hide the grin on my face with my freshly painted hand. the man eventually bent over a little to finish it off, and a long string extended from his mouth. it hung there, suspended for a good 30 seconds, and lengthened to touch the ground. luckily, it was a rainy day, so it washed away pretty quickly. i immediately thought had i been one of those people walking by him, and heard and possibly even smelled it, i would have joined right in his serenade to the sidewalk, involuntarily, of course. but i was indoors. across the street. i am still laughing about it.


song stuck in my head:

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