Why I Am Insane

The definition of insanity is a person who keeps doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. The reason I know I am insane is because I keep getting manicures with the expectation of fun and beauty. The fact that past manicures have only brought about one titanic nuisance after another does not seem to faze me in this belief.

The whole process starts out innocently enough. Some Asian lady who doesn’t speak a lick of English takes your hands and begins to lather you up, plying and pulling at your fingers. The movement brings about a looming sense that milk is going to start secreting out from your cuticles. (Okay, so maybe it doesn’t start out so innocent. Lets continue anyway). Those cuticles—milk or not—are then cut and disposed of, instantly vaporizing the barrier between your nail and skin. It’s so sudden—so revealing. You’re left with a nail standing in front of a barrage of skin, asking only to be loved.

Next there is some sort of buffing process at which time your smooth pearly nail gets transformed into Shredded Wheat courtesy of The File. It is an odd undoing, but not to worry, renovation comes in the form of a freakishly small finger spa located at each nail station which offers an anecdotal soak to any weary traveler within its vicinity.

A quick dry and you’re ready for the polish—pick out some paint and hope to God the color on the outside of the bottle is a true mirror of what is about to grace your nails. With any luck it will be close and you’ll only be marginally unsatisfied. Soon the polish is draping over the ends of your fingers while your Asian lady continues to chat foreignly on about who knows what. Probably she hates the color you picked out.

You are almost done when she finishes the last stroke—now comes the waiting process when your nails are placed under strange purple lights which I assume help them dry faster. Skate world for nails—I hope they have fun. After a stretch of twenty hours or so you decide to prod ever so slightly at your coating just to test. The surface feels slightly Gumby-ish, but close enough. Besides, people are waiting for their turn and its couples skate in purple light land.

Now comes the acrobatic feat of taking out your keys and starting the car without smudging the sacred colors. This is a very fragile time. I hate this part. Being so careful with every little move you make is like a heightened game of Operation only instead of a heart stopping zap you get a ruined manicure and 25 bucks down the drain.

If all goes well you end up with what seems like beautiful colored glass at the end of each finger. This effect lasts for about three or four days, at which time you begin to see cracks appearing in your polish like a frozen pond thawing in spring, returning to its natural state. These cracks are the birthing pains for what will be a good month of chipping and scraping. It signifies the end of your classy fingers, the end of your put togetherness. Say goodbye to peace and say hello to a stack of days wrought with nimieties of tiny paint chips bouncing off your fingertips every second of every minute. Not by nature’s intent does this happen, but rather by your own accord because you will not be able to stop chipping until every last infinitesimal spot of color is gone. I promise.

And so it is that after all this, I still will wake up on some random morning and decide that a manicure sounds fun. That a manicure is worth it. That is why I am insane.