Strongly Worded

Chinese Manicure

I am noticing that my nails are still sporting vestiges of my Christmas manicure. On Christmas Day, my friend K. and I planned to have Dim Sum in Chinatown, and then see Bad Education at our local independent cinema. After we consumed a great deal of shrimp, pork, and other more mysterious elements of dim sum, we found we had hours to kill before the movie. Since Chinatown was bustling despite Christ's birthday, K. and I decided to get our nails done.

We entered a salon across from the restaurant, which had an odd chemical smell, and asked whether they did manicures. The woman at the desk said no in a hostile voice, and we asked whether she could recommend any other place. She said no again, with equal hostility. We left, and walked directly into--surprise!-- an adjacent nail salon.

The salon was large and hip-looking, with high ceilings, sleek black fixtures, and, incongruously, a life-sized statue of Venus near the door. Several staff member clustered around the front desk, but only one other customer was having her hair cut. They were very startled by our arrival. A great deal of confusion ensued about whether K. and I could have our nails done at the same time. There were two manicure stations with many extraneous rolling chairs, and it took a while to get K. and me set up with both manicurists and chairs. The whole encounter was conducted entirely through gestures, since no one in the salon spoke even rudimentary English.

"My" manicurist was a middle-aged man, which was awkward in itself. We both avoided eye contact as he dropped my right hand into a bowl of lukewarm water (intended, I assume, to soften my cuticles). As he twisted my ring off, and proceeded to buff the hell out of the nails of my left hand, it became clear that his concept of a manicure did not involve pampering of any kind. Soon after, I noticed a cuticle-cutting implement on the table. I hesitated about whether to say outright that I didn't want it used on me. I was pretty sure that the trimming of cuticles is illegal in Massachusetts: but was Chinatown exempt? Is it like a quasi-autonomous region like an Indian Reservation? Should I say anything?

Ultimately, my fear of hepatitis won out over my fear of being a diva, and I said, as clearly as possible, that I didn't want my cuticles cut. This created even more confusion, and a frantic consult between colleagues, one of whom came over and interpreted, after which my cuticles were trimmed regardless. While the manicurist was vigorously applying lotion to my hand, a woman dashed into the salon, greeting everyone, scattering tinsel, and presenting each staff member with a little foil package with sweets inside. Everyone was so happy to see her, I gathered she was a family member visiting from afar.

Trying to "get in the spirit", I asked whether she was a relative. Again, a furrowing of brows and a hurried attempt to interpret my question--unsuccessful. The manicurist pulled each of my fingers away in a quick snapping motion, and then pronounced me "all set."

K. was already "all set" and we approached the cash register hoping that the manicure would be "affordable." It was. We paid and left. The manicure lasted all week.

Posted by Dori at 4:09 PM