Girls Do This For Fun?

I’m pretty sure Tong Tri Mai is saying rude things about my fingernails to her husband. As she wears them down with a large white rectangular file, my nails lose that jagged-skyline edge that comes from a lifetime spent collecting anxiety disorders. TTM (as Tong Thi Mai will be known from this point on) communicates via single molecules of English and an unknown strain of Vietnamese. None of the sounds make much sense to me. But her body language, which includes elaborate, scrunched-up faces of disapproval and a wagging index finger, conveys her aversion to my nail-gnawing habit. She groans as she wrangles a hangnail that juts from my thumb. At the bench behind me, TTM’s husband, Chung Doan, works quietly on my girlfriend’s cuticles; he is bee-like and precise. His only fashion statement is an all-white surgical mask.

Usually, I avoid nail salons, hospitals and other places where people with shiny metal objects have free rein over parts of my body. However, going to a nail salon “as a couple” has been a longtime dream of my girlfriend’s, so today I decided to make her special wish come true here at SM Nails, a lovely half-price joint that operates on the less-is-more concept. But the more time I spend in this chintzy little corner of the beauty universe, the more I regret my decision. Something about TTM’s tweezers, which are outfitted with industrial-grade rubber grips and razor tips, makes me think of a Samurai sword and how a Samurai sword can lop of the head of a horse in one blow. Panic hits, and I pray to the god of Peace and Cuticle-Trimming, asking the generous spirit to preserve my fingertips so I can still pick my nose when I’m stuck in heavy traffic.

But as the manicure begins, I realize the generous spirit is probably off playing eighteen holes and can’t care less about my plight. TTM is such a quick cutter. Soon, a pile of my dead skin and cuticles lie on the bench. “You O.K.?” she asks. A sharp wet pain somewhere tells me I’m not. Then I see them: droplets of raspberry-bright blood gathering around an aching spot where the flesh has abandoned my pinky. TTM’s eyes swell like weather balloons when she sees her mistake. To stop the bleeding, she blurts her single-syllable words loudly as if they are magic spells that Harry Potter taught her. For all I know, she’s probably yelling “hotdog” or “fire truck” or something else that doesn’t help my cause. The commotion causes Chu-Do (as Chung Doan will be known from this point on) to look back and yawn. Apparently, this isn’t the first time his wife has drawn first blood.

As TTM rummages through her drawer for band-aids, I focus on my dimly lit surroundings to detach myself from the throbbing pain. On the opposite side of the room, I notice a row of plastic-molded chairs that have either been salvaged from a 1970s Boeing 747 or rescued from a gulag barbershop. A sign above them reads “Pedicure Center.” Instead of footrests, they have tiny whirlpools that bubble with angry-looking water. What really throws me off about the whole setup, though, is that each chair is plugged into a big sparking outlet on the wall. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think water and electricity should ever be inside the same chair. Paranoia tells me that if my pinky doesn’t stop bleeding, TTM will strap me to one of those death seats rather than call an ambulance. I wonder if any heavy-breathing techniques are known to accelerate red-blood-cell coagulation.

My heaving diaphragm gives me away, and TTM notices my pale expression. “You O.K.?” she asks. It’s like her mantra. She’s constricting my wound with a limited-edition Superman band-aid, as if the Man of Steel himself will reverse time and make my boo-boo disappear. I nod my head in approval. A washed-up superhero somehow fits this place. But my finger still hurts. I drift away from the pain again, this time focusing on a wall-mounted black-and-white television, which receives satellite signals via a boomerang-shaped antenna that could easily be mistaken for a car spoiler. But instead of picking up mysterious transmissions from deep space, the fuzzy screen only airs the Food Network, which is running an in-depth special on the fine art of making grits. According to host Grandma Gene, good grits take butter, salt, corn, and “a whole bushel of love.” Thanks for the tip, Grandma. I’ll be sure to write that down. Lately, my supply of love-bushels has been running dangerously low.

“Good food,” says TTM, pointing to the TV. I’m not exactly sure where she’s going with this conversation. “You done,” she says. “Go wash.” Her pale finger points to a ceramic sink on the wall. Just rinse my hands and I’m free? It can’t be that easy, can it? It must be trick, a clever ruse to lure me over to the electric chairs. I don’t budge. “Go wash,” she repeats, this time in a darker tone. Scared of what will happen if I don’t, I stand up, walk over, and run my hands under the faucet. I nervously rub off the various chemicals with a bar of white soap. My girlfriend, who happened to enjoy a blood-free manicure by Chu-Do, joins me at the adjacent sink.

“Wasn’t it fun?” asks my girlfriend. Let’s see: Minus the miniature amputation, the creepy chairs, Grandma Gene's wisdom, and the sparkling conversation, it was still terrible. After drying our hands, we scuttle to the front desk where TTM is waiting for payment. As I hand her my credit card, she looks at me suspiciously. “I.D.” she says. That puts me over the top—I’ve never heard of getting carded to buy manicures, much less injurious ones. When I don't have my license, she shrugs and swipes anyway. I quickly sign the receipt, grab my girlfriend, and exit the building. Free at last! Outside, the sun feels like warm morphine. As we leave the parking lot, I reflect on what I’ve lost: a piece of my finger and my trust in the generous spirit of Peace and Cuticle-Trimming. However, I’ve gained a new protector; he wears a red cape and blue spandex, and he soars triumphantly in the wind as I dangle my hand out the window.