Nailed
By Leslie Dinaberg
March 6, 2009
I roll up my jeans, soak my toes in that mysterious blue powdery stuff and sink into the fake leathery comfort of a foot spa chair. I set the roller massage to just the right speed and pressure, so it kneads up and down my spine without shaking my body so hard that my boobs kiss my nose, then I close my eyes and prepare for bargain basement bliss.
Ah, Nirvana. There's nothing better than a lunchtime pedicure to relax you in the middle of a long, hard workday. It's the perfect cure for stress.
I close my eyes and pretend I'm being pampered at the Bacara, or better yet, the Ritz-Carlton in Maui. Ah, this is the life.
Then I hear it: "trông nh_ th_ nào là ch_t béo c_a cô ankles."
Huh? They're talking about me already. This must be a record. I haven't even gotten to the part about the crashing waves or the umbrella drinks at my fantasy spa.
"I said you have such pretty eyes. A rhinestone bleeding heart on your thumbnail's gonna really play them up," says my nail technician.
"Uh, I just want a pedicure," I say, closing my eyes and trying to get back to Maui.
"Only $4 extra if you want a knife going through the heart," she says, shoving a card full of rhinestone designs under my chin.
"Um, no thanks. I'm not really a bling girl, or a knife through the heart girl," I say.
"Không có b_n nhi_u h_n m_t giá r_ ch_t béo bò girl."
"What?"
"I say you have boyfriend. You have such pretty eyes you must have lots of boyfriend. Boyfriend like the bling on toes, let me tell you," she says.
I pull out my phone. I'm not sure what she said yet, but I know she did not say that.
"Không có b_n nhi_u h_n m_t giá r_ ch_t béo bò girl," she says.
Hey, cut it out. I know you're talking about me in Vietnamese and pretending you're not. And I'm sick of pretending not to notice.
And by the way, that iPhone I'm playing with has a translation app on it, so I know you just called me a big fat cow. I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult in your culture, but cut it out.
And now I know that before the cow comment you made fun of my cankles, which isn't very nice in any culture. Please just let me enjoy my pedicure in peace and quiet, instead of my usual paranoia that all of those giggles and guffaws from you and the other nail technicians are because you're making fun of my outfit.
And while you're at it, stop trying to upsell me every other minute. If I wanted to spend more money on my nails I would have gone someplace that wasn't decorated with plastic flowers in December and Christmas tinsel in July.
I know you're talking about me, just as surely I know there's no way your name is really Tammy or Heather. I know you're talking about me, just as surely as I know there's no way you can possibly be comfortable in those hooker shoes. Relax, put on some flip-flops and stop talking about your customers while they're sitting right there. I've got an app and I'm not afraid to use it.
You're in America now, and here in America we make catty comments about people AFTER they leave, not when they're still sitting there within earshot-and certainly not before they've given you a tip.
Share your nailed adventures with Leslie atLeslie@LeslieDinaberg.com . Read Leslie's columns every Friday in the the Santa Barbara Daily Sound. For more columns visit LeslieDinaberg.com.
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© 2010 Leslie Dinaberg
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