Melancholy? You're Soaking in It: When a good manicure goes bad

My manicurist is depressing. Melancholy: He's soaking in it. This is not
a good trait to have if you're in the business of trying to make women
feel good, because after all, what woman goes to get her nails done
because she wants to feel bad?

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About once a month or so I try to scrape together the time to go to the nail salon and I've been going to the same place for over five years now. I continue to go back because it's close and cheap and they do a great job and I rarely have to wait. However, there's this one guy who works there. When I see him, I cringe. Oh no, please not him.  

When he does my manicure, he'll start-in talking about work. His work. My work. Doesn't matter; he'll be complaining. I get plenty of complaining at home. I didn't come here for complaining. Or he'll ask questions about my day job. "Why are airfares so high?"  Or be accusing: "Your airline lost my bag in 1996!" I'll get right on that. "Why do so many pilots drink too much?" I don't know but this one could use a little something right now. He talks about the bad news that's playing on the TV. He talks about terrorism and war and anti-American sentiment and the recession and crime and oh, God, why couldn't he just talk about the weather, or flowers, the new polish shades for spring? Or even the Cubs? 

I guess when you get right down to it, a man in a nail salon is still hard for me to take, as much as I like to consider myself open-minded to this type of thing. As much as I would like to send all three of my men to one to get their talons hewn. And for some reason I still feel uncomfortable having a straight man do my nails. I believe this would be the case even if he didn't depress the hell out of me with his Eeyore banter.

This place I go to has these really cool massage chairs and one time a man was sitting next to me and even though I thought, Okay. I'm cool with this, I found out I really wasn't as soon as the massage chair went to high vibrate and sent my girls a flying. You see, a salon should be a respite from fear of ogling. A bastion of femininity. A place where the girls can jiggle in a massage chair without fear of impunity!

I suppose I shouldn't be so sexist. I've been known to take my sons to the barbershop, the proverbial bastion of masculinity. And I love the barbershop. It's quiet there. [Al's Barbershop -acitymom 2006]

My talons are in need of hewing and I probably should just do them myself, but I'm cautiously optimistic I might be able to carve out an hour this afternoon to get over to the salon for a dose of pampering and, if that guy is there, a dose of melancholy as well. Indeed, the price of beauty can be painful.

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