I knew things were about to get ugly. I saw the young woman in the Jimmy Choo platforms heading to the row of small, colorful bottles, zoning in on the pale pink. But a woman in Lululemon and Hoka sneakers moved faster and, by an arm’s length, snatched the nail polish bottle ahead of her rival. “Excuse me,” said the well-heeled woman indignantly, “that is my Sugar Daddy.”
“No, it’s my Sugar Daddy,” said sporty spice, spinning around to her manicurist’s table. “It’s the only shade that’s not too white and not too pink.”
“Well, then I’ll just have to take Ballet Slippers,” said the first woman.
Her manicurist went visibly pale. “We are out of Ballet Slippers.” But she was quick to add, “What we can do is one layer of Buns Up and one of Crop Top & Roll, which will be almost the same thing,” attempting with a nervous smile her version of debutante diplomacy. The manicurist clearly didn’t want to engage in a bottle-snatching match with her colleague.
High Maintenance is not only a nail polish color but a state of play at fancy Hamptons nail salons.
The truth of the matter is that most of us who can paint nail polish with both hands and have enough flexibility to reach our toes can complete our own mani-pedis. But the act of having someone else doing the work is one of the simplest luxuries most women enjoy. Some find it stressful, like my sister, who has a knack for picking “unfortunate” colors. However, she came up with a quick fix by choosing the polish with the least in the bottle, signaling its popularity. I wouldn’t have thought of her as a So Many Clowns So Little Time sort of girl, but hey, nothing is permanent.
What is not so enjoyable is how some customers treat the women who work long hours for little pay over their bunions. (Little do these upscale women know fingernail clippings are a secret weapon for revenge spells.) The technicians have to listen to customers’ conversations about overdone halibut, Pilates parking problems, and menopausal sex remedies. They don’t have the same status as hair stylists, who sometimes double as therapists.
For me, as I don’t treat myself often, sitting in the chair and having someone give me a spa pedicure is almost a religious experience. (Think of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples.) I like to sit quietly and be present in the moment, grateful for this intimate act.
In his memoir “On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous,” Ocean Vuong writes beautifully about his mother, a Vietnamese immigrant who worked for decades in a nail salon. He tells a story of helping an elderly woman to her pedicure chair when he was a boy. She adjusted herself and then pulled off a prosthetic leg. Since she was paying the full price, the woman asked his mother if she could also do her missing foot, which she said she still could feel. His mother obliged, gently rubbing the non-existent calf and painting the five missing toes.
In an interview, he related all the acknowledgments he had for his writing but said his mother was also an artist. And never acknowledged. With a hint of heartbreak, he said, “It takes aesthetic skill and technique, but no one has ever clapped for her.” At the end of a yoga class, the students nod their heads to their teacher and say Namaste, which translates roughly to “The light in me honors the light in you.” Most nail salon workers get a polite “thank you” and a cash tip. Not a lot for transforming a woman’s day as a fresh mani-pedi can do.
Personally, I don’t need to stress over Sugar Daddy. I can make do with Mademoiselle or Marshmallow or, if I’m feeling crazy, After School Boy Blazer. And while I may not clap at the end, I will at least do a small bow to honor the technician’s hard work. The artist in me honors the artist in you.
