Deliverance Country

Today, at the newest, hippest, coolest nail salon in town, there were issues. The issues were not with the actual place. Who wouldn’t be happy with awesome, purple massage chairs that are so new you can still smell the naugas that died for their cover? Or with the funky lighting in the water that ecclesiastically soothes your tired, calloused, cankered feet? Or even with the lovely water served in a stumpy wine goblet with both a slice of cucumber AND lemon?

No. The issue was with the men.

That’s right MEN in my favorite (for the moment) nail salon! They do not belong there (please note that I am all for equal rights, but really – who can respect a man who goes to a girly nail salon).

I tried to stay focused on the Sandra Bullock chick flic playing on the tv (further proof that nail salons are a place for women) but my eyes were drawn to the various guys sitting in the purple massage chairs. Much like flies to shit.

The first one was a rough looking guy. The kind of guy you’d find at your local biker bar slamming shots, throwing darts, and pushing himself onto women with big hair. He glared every time I glanced his way. I think he feared that I’d blow his cover. His secret is safe with me as part of my therapy involves staying the heck out of biker bars.

The second guy was an old man. I figured he couldn’t reach his feet any more. And possibly, he was a bit blind. He just smiled and said hello to everyone. Everyone. Even the shadows.

It was the third guy that creeped me out the most. He looked to be young enough to be cool (he wasn’t) and yet old enough to drink. He came in wearing zip up boots. My children used to wear zip up shoes back in the day before they could tie laces. But I digress. The most prominent thing about this guy (besides him getting a pedicure, may I remind you), was the huge, honking cross on his necklace. You could see it shining prominently under his colorful scarf that he'd worn despite the 70 degree temperature.

Now I’m not opposed to religion. I have fond memories of it. But I do take issue with people who feel compelled to shove it down the throats of unwilling participants.

As this guy was getting his pedicure, he asked the Vietnamese pedicurist (it is a word, I Googled it) if she was saved. Not understanding, she just smiled and nodded. While clearly, English is not her native tongue, she just may be on to something since Jebus-boy left her alone for the remainder of the pedicure.

As luck would have it, I got moved to the drying table right after he did. When he asked me where I went to church, I couldn’t bring myself to respond like the pedicurist. In the end, I decided to mimic the biker guy and I simply glared at him.

That trick works, too.