Can’t recall precisely when I began having my nails professionally attended. It was not something I particularly warmed to, given the environment normally involved women only. I accordingly felt to be an odd interloper; and those hanging colour palettes were always a drawback. That vernacular has changed somewhat over the past decade but a nail salon is still predominantly filled with women. Now I go because I have to; so the issue of being compatible with the salon is irrelevant. For me it is no longer comfortable having to deal with either my fingernails or toenails on my own at home because I am obstructed by the prescriptions of acuity of vision and physical prowess; that is, I have trouble seeing what I am doing or getting where I am going. Like many other declensions of old age I now happily accommodate them without embarrassment or apology. A regular visit to the nail salon for a mani/pedi is on my routine to-do list.
When booking the appointment I frequently get asked an altered rendition of what I suppose is a stock question for women; namely, “What service do you want? Just the regular?” I guess they’re open to me saying I want something special, like acrylic nails or colour or whatever. I have always opted for “just the regular” though I have never asked what other services might possibly be of interest to me. Nor frankly can I imagine anything other than “just the regular”. Indeed I have to say that “just the regular” suits me very well. Although I have no colour or clear paint of any description added to my nails, I confess I rather enjoy the pinkish colour the polished nails afterwards assume. And the moderate massages on the hands and shins are not without their value. Of course all this is wrapped up in pretty smelling lotion for the hands and feet; and during the pedicure there is the delight of playing with the massage features of the big chair.
Today’s services were interrupted by a problem my technician “Snow” had with her banker. I had arrived at the salon minutes before the scheduled appointment at 9:30 am. Snow arrived about fifteen minutes later. She asked if she might first go to her bank, requesting me to wait another 15 minutes. I agreed. She did not return until almost 10:30 am. She was visibly disturbed. Things had apparently not gone well at the bank. She tried to explain to me the nature of the problem but her English (and my hearing problem) made it impossible for me to decipher. I did however offer to speak to the bank on her behalf but she declined. We then agreed that she would have to speak to someone senior to the manager in order to get an answer to her question. From what I could gather, she wanted to know about the absence of $1,000 for which she had a receipt of deposit but for which the bank had no record. My instincts told me that her concern was legitimate; but for some reason the banking records were not consistent with her own. It was time to go higher up the ladder.
Through prolonged attention to the matter – as the pedicure was completed and we moved from the big pedicure chair to the smaller manicure chair – she became somewhat less distraught. I think my assurance of her entitlement to an answer to her question partially assuaged her difficulty. I shall be interested to hear the outcome upon my next visit.
Upon returning to the townhouse I conducted limited features of my daily routine, riding on my tricycle, sunbathing and chatting with Mrs. C and others by the pool, and finally swimming in the sea. The nurturing adjustment to Middle C was the iced tea with freshly squeezed lemon juice. My salad is prepared; the morsels of smoked trout set à côté. I speculate the compôte of mixed fruits is prepared as well. I even made my final appointment for a haircut. Already I am anticipating the perfection of the morrow sans obligation or duty of any order! What a day of labour it has been!