12/16/11 Nail salon, Capitola

12/16/11

Nail salon, Capitola

“Oh, he’s a cute one!” says the woman next to me. Heavy and overly made-up, she’s looking at the big screen in the nail salon. “That’s Tebow, alright.”

Tebow. I’d never even heard of the guy and then today, he’s all over the place. First on NPR, then KGO (which I can’t stand anymore) and now, this woman.

                He’s apparently a super-human football player who writes bible verses in the black smudge under his eyes.  Like the one about God so loving the world that he gave his only son.

                “I don’t know what people are so upset about,” the woman says.

                This is a conversation I don’t want to have.

                Before she came in I was looking at all of the customers with their pants hitched up past their swollen ankles.  I was looking at the row of Vietnamese women  attending to their feet.

                One client was talking loudly on her cell phone when she yelped suddenly, causing all of the bowed heads to shoot up. An almost inaudible undercurrent of Vietnamese started up. “So sorry,” said the pedicurist, dabbing at the foot. “No bleeding,” she said.

The woman laughed into her phone.     

“Dude,” she said. “I just got stabbed with cuticle clippers!”

Further down the line, next to me, another customer issued instructions.

                “Not too short,” she said. “Just a little off the top.”

                I looked at her toenails which were long and curling at the ends.

                They must hate us, I thought.

                “This feels great,” I tell the manicurist who’s massaging my hands before applying polish.  She smiles. The outline of her lips is a dark, swollen ridge, evidence of a bad reaction to cosmetic tattooing. Her name tag says 'Tina' but more likely her name’s Anh or Trinh.

                “Sure, Tebow’s a Christian,” the woman says. “They say he’s exploiting that. I say if you’re gonna exploit something, why not that? Am I right? Plus, he’s celibate. Better than hopping from bed to bed, I say.”

                She’s talking to me. The manicurists don’t join in on conversations like this. There’s  a definite line drawn in nail salons of this type.  Not a ‘we’ versus ‘them’ line, but a ‘we’ and ‘them’ line.  Customers and technicians. American and Vietnamese. English speaking and Vietnamese speaking. And something disturbingly close to Superior and Servile.

                An ex-massage therapist, I know the risk of repetitive stress injuries and I tip ‘Tina’ well over what the nail salon owners charge.  I admire the artistry of the miniature flowers she paints on my toenails.

                Still, I doubt that her American dream involved scraping dead skin off of cracked heels.

                “I’m not like other Christians, though,” the woman gestures at the big screen. The sports report has been replaced by politics and a list of the Republican candidates. “There’s not a-one of them I’d vote for,” she says.  “That would surprise some people. They think all Christians are like those right-wing crazies.”

                “I think there’s a spectrum,” I say.

                “Exactly!” She’s happy I’ve finally responded. “Like Newt was on ‘The View’ and he said some awful things about the poor. As if they’re all whores and pimps.”

                I look at Tina who’s been peeking up at me throughout this conversation. I know the salon owners bus a lot of these manicurists over from San Jose. I’d bet they pay them less than minimum wage. It seems like a racket.

                The woman lowers her voice. “I say Obama’s done as well as he could have considering the mess he inherited.”

                “I agree,” I say, surprised.  I wouldn't have taken her for an Obama supporter.

  “Just look at what that Bush did to this country,” she continues.

I’m tired. Too tired to engage further. I have a cold, my nose feels raw and I’m beginning to think I won’t go to the party I’m having my nails done for.

Tina peeks up at me again and says something, but her voice is too soft.

“What?”

“You look beautiful,” she says.

I smile and meet her gaze before she looks away.

“Thank you.  Is Tina your real name?”

“No, my real name is Grace. This smock is someone else.”

“Well then, thank you, Grace.”

“Do you guys do shellacking?” Someone calls from the door.

“Shellacking?” The woman next to me is incredulous. “Do you mean gel? They do gel.”

She looks back at me and shakes her head. “No one knows anything these days.”