Why DIY manis? Part Two
Back in the summer of 2024, I was getting routine manicures. No gel for me, thanks: Gel is not fun to remove by hand. I knooooooow! Terrible! I should not have been peeling off regular lacquer in the first place, but I didn't know any better: I had not encountered the resources and community that would change my life just yet. I thought going to the salon regularly was good enough. Were there terrible manicures? Sure thing. One nail tech in Montréal decided to buff (?) my nails with a drill because I guess she objected to my ridges and I was PISSED OFF. She left a divot on my ring fingernail that took about six months to fully grow out. You would think that would have made me dislike random salons, but no: I had yet to learn my lesson.
I also didn't learn my lesson when I went to a shady spot in Richmond, with crusty bottles of Chinese nail polish.
And I did not learn my lesson when the gorgeous red polish a nail tech pulled out of the bowels of the salon stained my nails an alarming shade of jaundiced red.
I didn't learn my lesson when I went to a beloved place in my neighborhood that had a remodel and built-in fans that blew acrylic dust onto my freshly painted... red (!!) manicure.
And I didn't learn my lesson when I went to a sweet little place in the Dupont Circle area where I got a good piece of advice (Vaseline on cuticles seals them well and prevents damage) and was dismayed to see the tech using a disgusting, old nail file that looked like it had been used on hooves. Ok, that manicure was pink.
The pattern is definitely that I like red manicures and that it took something more egregious than nail trauma, stains, instantly ruined application and rising costs to sour me on going to the salon.
Enter the last salon manicure I ever had.
The place I frequented before kissing off the salon altogether is, honestly, quite dreamy. The model is shared by a couple of upscale places, and it's simple: These places ply you with foofy drinks and/or alcohol in order to keep your business. Sure, they also promise a gentle, water-free manicure. Yes, they lure you with gentle polishes that are 3-free, 5-free, 10-free, insert-your-favorite-number free and they also promise that they will recycle the water, save the ducks, make a better tomorrow, send you home with a gift kit because they will NEVER reuse the tools they used to work on your nails and, above all, they promise that they care about your liberal causes.*
This place is a favorite in my immediate neighborhood and they are usually so, so busy that they do not take walk-ins. On more than one occasion I saw an otherwise mild-mannered white lady absolutely lose her shit because the receptionist told her simply and with little apology that the salon DOES NOT ACCEPT WALK-INS.
Had you called her an entitled, racist-ass old bag, she would have been less offended. Alas.
Anyway. It's easy to make an appointment online and I'd lately become a big fan of the Dazzle Dry system ––which, at the time, was only available at very select salons–– so off I went on a sunny morning. I can't even remember if it was summer, fall or winter. I just remember the way the morning light was hitting the shop.
I picked a pale, ballerina pink Dazzle Dry color and the tech went to work.
Now, I think this will be a separate post, but getting your nails done is a very delicate dance, where you have to accommodate for the shape of the nails and the fact that it matters whether your tech is right- or left-handed.
But yes, it's a moment of trust and vulnerability: you're trusting someone with your hands, for better or for worse.
So when the nail tech started handling my fingers roughly, I thought maybe I'd been holding myself a little too stiffly. "Must be me," is usually what I think.
And then I yelped loudly in the sun-drenched shop where no one talks. People looked up from their phones. The receptionist blanched and then promised a 10% off discount.
As it turns out, the nail tech had tried to straighten out my pinky finger. She roughly tugged on it, perhaps frustrated with me or, most likely, with her finger-painting existence. I don't blame her for her frustration, but I do think that twisting my finger into an unnatural position was the kind of move that wasn't going to go over well with anyone.
I didn't mean to scream. I was as surprised as she was when the sound came out and hung over the quiet room.
But that finger twist kind of snapped me out of my own entitlement: Salons can be great places for a sometimes-treat, sure, but if I want self-care, I need to understand what it is that I seek. Being at the mercy of someone else's bad day is not my idea of relaxation-- not anymore.
Yes, there are endless daily interactions where you are at the mercy of other people's whims (most notably, the White House) , but nail salons tend to be poorly remunerated and have tough working conditions. Supporting a salon that pays their employees a living wage is important, but it also drives the price (obviously). And many nail salons are fronts for human trafficking. No, I'm not saying that any of the salons in my area are doing that (if you're curious as to what the signs of human trafficking at your salon might look like, click here. And if you think it can't happen at your salon, think again).
Nail salons are great, really. They became a career opportunity for Vietnamese refugees, thanks in large part to Tippi Hedren and her gorgeous nails and equally lovely heart. They are third places, filled with the promise of joy and beauty no matter what your size. They are a lifeline, and I will always cherish all the hours I spent at salons around town and elsewhere.
But yeah... that finger twist made me realize it was okay not to return and to try something new.
And then, as if on cue, I started getting fancy indie polish ads on the algorithm.
(*They care about your money, honey. It's a business.)
