hey, you want flower...

So, not to sound like Leona Helmsly or anything, but I was just totally assaulted at the salon. I walk into the Shiny Nails, located across the street from my office and am immediately instructed to “Pick Color!”
I hand them my standard O.P.I. Kennebunk-PORT.
“What you want on foot?”
“Oh, I want same color on hands and toes, please.”
“Same color?”
“Yeah. Same color.”
Immense rolling of eyes and speaking in tongues ensues. I am then pushed into a spa chair as both right extremities are aggressively grabbed. With my free left hand, I snag a People magazine from a rack nearby and proceed to dive into an article on my favorite inmate and neighbor, Scott Peterson. One angry woman manhandles my feet, as the other rips apart my hands. All of a sudden, pain shoots through my right ring finger. I look down as my nail bed fills with blood.
Shit.
Oddly enough, I don’t want to be a bitch. I mean, they haven’t even begun to paint yet, and that’s the important part. I certainly don’t want to do anything that will be the manicurist equivalent of spitting on my salad. But my uncontrollable twitch alerts the masochist manicurist to my injury and she must respond by dousing it in what I pray to God is some kind of miraculous infection prevention.
Needless to say, flames erupted within my epidermis and my eyes watered up.
The pedicurist angrily looks at me, then at the manicurist and then back at me.
“You cry?”
“No, no. It just stings a little. I’m totally fine.”
“You make her cry!” She screams at the manicurist, while vigorously rubbing my calves with lotion, thus causing my entire body to move and forcing the manicurist to get nail polish all over the place. I believe there’s still some on my elbow, I was being so subsequently pushed, pulled and painted.
“She fine!” The manicurist bellows in response.
“She so tense now!” The pedicurist rips Scott Peterson from my hand and angrily throws him to the floor, probably where he belongs. Her evil eyes focused back onto me.
“You relax!”
Oh yeah. No problem. I’m bleeding from a highly necessary digit, causing inter-office fights among beauticians and we’ve all prompted an orchestra of angry Asian squabbling, clearly all about me.
I’m the picture of serenity.
With Scott slammed on the filthy wall to wall carpeting, I’m forced to stare into space, like the Cowardly Lion uncomfortably having his hair done. They finally finish, all 10 nails red and indeed, quite shiny. After the required 20 minutes under the needless driers, I slide into my flops, scrawl out a check and bolt.
“Thank you!”
“Oh, you welcome! You come back. And you no cry next time!”