spurred on by my encounter with a dirty yoga mat and a conversation with my developmentally delayed bus acquaintance about the state of my fingernails, i decided that it was time for a little "maintenance". i decided i'd go girly and treat myself to a manicure and pedicure at a little place at the end of my street.
i was really looking forward to being pampered so it wasn't until i was at the front desk requesting an appointment that i noticed what a sorry state i was truly in. like a woman who cleans the house before the maid arrives, i was suddenly mortified that i hadn't done some preliminary prep before someone whose job it is to tend to my hands and feet, saw my hands and feet.
each of my nails was a different length and despite two showers and a sincere effort with a nail brush, paint from a backdrop i was preparing was still brightly shining between the layers of my nails. aiming for comfort and not knowing i'd have to take them off in public later, i'd worn my comfy,though rank, sneakers that haven't seen the light of day since last summer. i tried to explain apologetically before my esthetician approached but i soon realized that she spoke almost no english so i just tried to avoid eye contact as she rolled her sleeves up for a tough session.
soon after she began, the other women who worked in the salon began chatting to one another in Chinese. the banter went back and forth across the room and laughter soon rang out.
my sister and i glanced at each other from across the room and shared perpelxed looks anxious to know just what was so funny, quietly confident that on some level we were being mocked.
i was incredulous as the next hour and a half passed by and not a word of english was spoken except when the receptionist took a phone call.
as the room became animated with their private conversations, i started to feel as though i had crashed a stranger's party. it was as though i was on vacation in my own city. at least when you are traveling you expect to be socially isolated and left out of the loop.
salons are typically places where female bonding happens, where secrets are shared and you walk away feeling like you know the group of people you shared the afternoon with. incredible how a single element, language, skewed the whole experience. i found myself longing for the little banter that you share with someone when they are cutting your hair or putting lotion on your cuticles. without it , or eye contact or being addressed with words instead of a series of taps and gestures, i was a little lost.
suddenly realized that without the personal pleasantries it's not pampering. it's maintenance.
felt jaded. then felt guilty.
why should these women who have to spend 8 hour days sloughing off dead skin and picking out gunk from underneath other women's nails be obliged to engage in small talk? is it their job to entertain as well as buff and polish? before long i was making connections to john's and prostitutes. bad enough they have to do the job but they have to be sweet too? ridiculous comparison i know but guilt is a powerful emotion! can i really call myself a feminist when i get pissy if my manicurist didn't ask me about my day because she is preoccupied with studying to get her citizenship? (not exaggerating here, she really had the test manual beside her at her station and was reading it-with the help of a computerized translation device- as my nails dried.)
as my sister and i were walking home my concern for the esthetician's endentured servitude began to fade.
"what the hell was that?" she said.
"i know, that was so rude. i hate it when all the people around you are speaking another language. it makes you paranoid," i replied.
so much for a relaxing afternoon. ah, the price of beauty!
No comments:
Post a Comment