So I realize that I am not the girliest girl in the world, I probably even border on a somewhat guy like quality with how i dress myself (jeans tshirt and lesbo plaid), and like that I don't need my face to be cemented in make up just to go to the grocery store. Hell, I even will get on cam after I just wake up. I do, however, have some moments where I like to feel all pretty (in a non drag queen but normal) way and I like dressing up and wearing pantyhose and curling my hair. Those moments are few and far between (except when I go to conventions of course - where I become pure diva) and so when I am feeling the dressy mood, I try not to fight it and do it up right.

My pal stephanie is a girlie girl. I can count the number of time that she has put on jeans to go out in on one hand. She is pretty anyway - she just enjoys the little things that make that so, like doing her hair up differently all the time as opposed to my We-Are-Lucky-If-It's-Not-Tangled do, her eyebrows waxed (and now I am a firm believer in) and getting her nails done at a salon.

I have often admired her nails after looking at my chewed up claws - but never seemed to make time for getting them done or really caring that much as all you have to do is slap a coat of paint on and all the tell tale signs of my nervous stress biting can be excused as "I have to type so I keep them short on purpose." Like anyone besides men intentionally want short nails.

So Steph spots a weak moment in my usual jeans and tanktop demeanor and suggests that we go to her manicuring place. Sure, I can do that. I got a spare hour and Circlek and MissPriss were coming to town so why not treat myself. I trusted her, I believed that she thought we were doing a cool girl thing. I thought that she wanted to share this first time experience with me in a good way. She failed me.

We get there and it's run by all these Vietnamese girls. Stephanie claimed that out of all the places she went to get her nails done - only these girls would get it done right and for cheap. I only heard cheap. Row upon row of manicuring tables are jammed into the place and they are ushering people in and out of their seats like it's a drive thru window during lunch hour.

I finally get seated and the girl puts on a surgical mask and then in a very broken accent accompanied by bad English expected me to understand a word she was saying underneath. Crap. I look at Steph for assistance. Luckily she has the nail length that I want so I grab Stephanie's hands and point and nod and the girl giggles at me. Then she whips out her tools of destruction which resemble that of a doctor's set preparing to open a bone or sand it down. ACK!!!

While I am pondering what each of the instruments of doom are for - I am snapped back into reality by the sound of the sander blasting into my nail bed. WHAT??!!?? This isn't what I signed up for and try to take my hand away. I have questions and I want them answered now. Even a doctor will go over the procedure with you - even if it's only a hangnail. But I don't get that luxury as she has the grip of a boa constrictor, giggles at me and motions for me to sit down. I painfully watch as my nails get destroyed one by one as this girl is giggling at my shock and horror. Even Steph seems to be enjoying this as she sticks her tongue out at me. Bitch.

After she has decided that she has done enough damage that she has now GUARANTEED that I have to go on with this misery or else look like I have a really big obsessive compulsive disorder that I take out on my hands, she picks out the nail sizes to be glued on my nails. They are two inches long and I am about to bitch again but Steph sees that I am merely confused at this point and explains that "This is the hoochie-mamma length that they start out with. They sand it down to the length you want." Oh good. I get to look forward to the sander in fear instead of having it surprised on me again.

The gluing process starts and this is where I get dazed as I am still angered by the fact that Steph KNEW that this would all happen and that this place has pretty much guaranteed that I have to forever throw money at them to make sure that my nails stay pretty. I also was trying to take my mind off the fact that I wanted to grab that sander and make the giggling stop.

She then proceeds to put on the plastic crap to conceal the abuse she has put on my hands and to cover the obvious line left by the beginning of the fake nail and the end of my real nail (nub). Ok. Now they are looking much better and I am almost ready to forgive her until one of my nails seems to have a bad reaction to the chemicals that are on it. It's stinging. And badly. I can feel my heartbeat throb with it - it hurts so bad. In a moment where she drops my hands to look for another torture device - I get it away from her and point at the nail saying that it hurts. She giggles again and reaches for the sander and starts filing it down more. This doesn't fix the problem. The pain starts to subside AFTER she leaves it alone to bestow her evilness on the next nail and it's at an acceptable level that I can tolerate (for now), so I let it go.

As if this weren't bad enough - a child of one of the manicurists is running around and decides to use my chair as a punching bag. I hate kids anyway, but with the sander going and one false move and my nails being toast I wanted to jump up and shove my new claws in this kid's eyes. I don't though, as I am also worried that the girl might take offense and add in some other "treatment" that would not only cause more pain, but would add to my bill.

She starts sanding the one red throbbing nail again and this time I am near tears. "NOOOOOOO!! THIS HURTS!!!!" The girl sees that this outburst from me might deter the other customers waiting in line and quickly grabs a bottle from the shelf and puts it on my nail. It instantly stops the pain. I look at the bottle and it's aptly named "Pain Away." She knew this was there before and purposefully didn't ease my suffering till now? GRRRR.

Now it's time for the fun part. I get to pick out the nail color that best describes me (after I pay for them, of course) and then dry them. All the while the little boy has decided that I am the best person to hang with as he has probably never seen the faces of pain that I am showing before or heard the expletives I am muttering under my breath and is quite captivated. Great.

After bitching Steph out in the parking lot, trying to get my keys in the car without ruining the nail polish and finding out from Steph that one of the ugliest guy manicurists there thinks I am hot and wants to get to know me better (oh joy for when I have to go again), I get home and realize that even at this short a length of nail, I am deprived of some of the smaller things in life that I like to do, like type, or pick at my face, or any other small thing I cherished that went with my favorite pastimes and eased my manic neurosis. I felt like one of those dogs that have that two foot cone shaped collars around their necks - except mine was a pretty shade of pink. I was almost willing to drop my favorite phrase of "it's better to look good than to feel good" and rip them all off in a desperate attempt to go back to the way things were.

Flash forward to now. My nails look good, I have learned to cope with the small things (like typing) and I have even found that with my new talons I have cooler skills (like getting ice of ice trays). My face even looks better as I can't pick at it anymore (Mom was right). The nail polish hasn't chipped in weeks and I am getting them filled again with Steph this Thursday (yeah i forgave her). I only hope that the kid isn't there, that guy isn't working that day and I can control my urge to rip out the vocal cords of the giggling manicurist. Wish me luck.