Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Hell Hath No Fury...

... like a little man, even of the adorable and semi-androgynous neonate  variety, subjected to the horrors of... cue creepy 50's B-grade horror movie soundtrack... A BEAUTY SALON!

And not just any beauty salon. Hells no, I'm not going to blow hundreds of dollars at the trendiest Aveda spa again. OK, fine, at least not until I am once again gainfully employed and my youngest has moved out.  But since I'm still struggling to fit back into my fat jeans1 five weeks post-partum with my first baby, I went to... again with the cheezy music... a BEAUTY SCHOOL BEAUTY SALON!

I should have listened to Pillbug, who gave me The Evil Eye when I told him we were going to get Mommy a pedicure. The Evil Eye isn't from my husband, like many of Pillbug's facial expressions are, so I can only assume it's from me. A karmic payback if you will, since I give my own Evil Eye a lot. Pillbug's Evil Eye in the past has held out no longer than 15 seconds, but today kept up the entire 10 minute ride to the middle class post adolescent den of cattiness salon. As befitting a place staffed exclusively by 90 lb women who still need their fake IDs to get into bars, te salon was in a neighborhood that my husband would flip his lid if he knew I visited.

There I was reminded of one of two universal truths: 

1) Yes, I was in the nerd chick sorority in college; 
2) Broke people's fingernails always look awesome.

Re: #1 - With apologies to my girls from college, the vibe in the salon reminded me of my days holding court with Delta Phi Epsilon.  My sorority gatherings, regardless of the degree of sobriety, were resplendent with conversations about pressing issues germane to our lives, such as complaining about the academic annoyances caused by the Musical Borders of "the Stans" (former Soviet republics) and speculating as to the true sexual orientation of various world leaders. 

At the Sunny Republicanville beauty school salon, the conversational topics were equally scintillating dissertations such as how That Ho Michelle thinks she speaks Spanish since she majored in it in college (she probably is at least proficient), whether purple highlights are too much (YES!) and whose babydaddy can watch the kids that night so people can barhop.  The lovely tinfoil hat wearer disguised as a normal, sane cosmetology student, however, upon ascertaining that I do, in fact, take prescription drugs, launched into a dissertation on medical conspiracy theories:

Tinfoil Hat: I knew you took medication!  I just knew it!  You have ridges in your toenails! That's what they do to you.  

Me: Thinking I'd rather have ridges in my toenails than deal with the effects of a crap thyroid, pancreas, etc. Excuse me? 

TH: You don't need toenail ridges!  Doctors make you take all these unnecessary medications, to give you cancer and make more money treating you. 

Me: Reflecting on my old endochrinologist's reluctance to so much as test me for strep throat, and deciding a responsible endo likely wouldn't actually treat cancer. Maybe the oncologist is giving him a cut? So cosmetology, huh?  That sounds like a fun career!

Re: #2 - Seriously, what gives with that?! I get you can put acrylics with diamante-studded Van Gough designs on your credit card, but how do you avoid chipping them when doing housework and such?

And my son, how did he fare in all this?  Pillbug bucked up and weathered the indignities of the morning with a grace and valor that he must have gotten from some extremely recessive gene. He managed to refrain from giving The Evil Eye to all the teenagers who thought he was such an "itty-bitty cute widdwe baby! I want another!" The middle-aged women do more of the baby talk in squeaky voices; of the "being waterboarded is less irritating" variety.  I could tell he was seething inside and waited for the indignant ear-splitting shrieking to begin any minute. Thank goodness, he sat quietly in my lap, and even went to sleep while the dead skin wasn't being scraped off my soles.  The point of a pedicure was???

I tried to take his cue and avoid giving my own Evil Eye to the same teenagers who then tried to tell me their own childbirth horror stories. I wish I could say they're less annoying after you have the baby.  They aren't.  But some teenybopper bragging about walking out of the hospital in her prepregnancy jeans, may be justifiable homicide.

All in all? With pedicures, you get what you pay for. So for my $12.50, I have nicely painted, de-ridged toenails on dead skinned feet, and my belief in my intellectual and social superiority reaffirmed.  Hopefully Pillbug is too little to remember the outing; or else I could see the aftershocks earning some therapist a new Coach bag.


1Why is it that I still can't zip my fat jeans, but am wearing my fresh-out-of-the-dryer "hot" jeans that are two sizes smaller?  Or is the real question, how ridiculous does a 30-something mommy look wearing beat-up two seasons' ago Sevens?

2Milosevic is totally bisexual.  Whatever happened to that guy anyway?

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