Money's Worth

My hands were disgusting. Teacher hands usually are. There were scabs on my knuckles from faulty binder rings, paper-cuts between my fingers, and fine black dust from the whiteboard around my nails that no amount of scrubbing could clean away. Time for a manicure.
It was late on a Friday night when I made the decision. I knew I had little chance of booking an appointment on such late notice, but I was determined to try. Before I went to bed that night, I’d called and left messages at half a dozen salons. My filthy fingers were crossed.
The next morning, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, my phone rang. Hem hem. I cleared my throat to make sure my voice worked before answering. It was a woman from one of the salons I’d called the night before. They wanted me in at ten. Excuse me? Ten. I had twenty minutes to get there—my morning pee would have to wait.
When I finally found the salon, after snaking my way through an industrial neighborhood, I was one minute late. I pushed open the front door and was greeted by the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Then a woman in her fifties rounded the corner, You made it. I nodded. How about a mani/pedi, it’s only thirty dollars. I remembered breaking a toe-nail earlier in the week. Sure, I answered. She handed me a questionnaire to fill out and left the room. Meanwhile, I answered the questions and kept reminding myself how lucky I was to get an appointment.
A few minutes later, a woman in white scrubs introduced herself as Merinder and led me down a long hallway. The décor wasn’t quite what I expected. (As I had pulled into the parking lot, I learned that the salon was actually a hair and esthetics academy called Beauty-Tech. I’d been to academies before, so I prepared myself to suffer a close-cut cuticle or some rough filing, but I hadn’t prepared myself for this.)
Merinder led me to a large room with high ceilings and concrete floors. The fluorescent lights hadn’t been turned on yet, and the light from the windows illuminated billions of tiny specs of dust flying in the air. Merinder pointed to a raised white chair with a footstool that reminded me of an old-fashioned foot-polishing chair. Across the room, there was a long bench covered with purple vinyl and bejeweled around the edges. In some spots, the vinyl had torn and, like the seats in my little brother’s beater, the foam was spilling out. I crinkled my nose, but reminded myself again that I was about to be treated to a manicure and a pedicure—for cheap!
Merinder gently placed my feet in a tub of warm soapy water then turned the lights on. They flickered then shone with a steady buzz. Then the older woman, who had greeted me when I’d first arrived, entered the room and announced she’d be giving me my manicure. She introduced herself as Betty and proudly announced that she was the founder of the academy. At that, I was somewhat relieved; any thoughts of suffering a Paula Abdul-esque thumb-fungus incident flew out the window. So, while Merinder worked away on my feet, Betty brought me two trays of warm water for my hands and placed them on a table to my right. There you go, dear, she said, soak away, and walked away. I had to twist around to reach the trays, and it wasn’t long before my already bad back was screaming. A few minutes later, Betty returned to press play on the CD-player in the corner of the room. An instrumental of Pachelbel’s Canon drifted toward me then halted abruptly—the silence was followed by a brief screeching sound. Merinder looked up at me, Betty always plays that CD, and it always does the same thing—I apologize. I told her it was alright. Really, all I could think about was my back and the fact that the water my fingers were in was tepid and sending chills up my bare arms.
Finally, Betty returned. She dried my hands and started to file my nails. I sighed and finally relaxed. So, Betty started, have I got a story for you. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to listen, but it didn’t seem like I had much of a choice in the matter. As she filed away, Betty told me how she’d been married and divorced three times, but had recently re-connected with her second husband. I never should have let him go, she said, sighing. She stopped filing and looked at me, This time I won’t let him go. Apparently their kids, whom they’d had in previous marriages, didn’t get along and that put stress on their marriage. But now, she said, his kids are grown, and so are mine, so thing are perfect. That’s nice, I replied. I wasn’t trying to hide my disinterest, but Betty didn’t catch on. Sure, he’s still got a girlfriend, but you know how men are, he doesn’t want to hurt her. Oh my. He’s assured me he’ll leave her in June after he makes her a shelf—he’s promised her the shelf, and he’s not the type to break his promises. June, I thought, wow. It was only September.
I started to shift in my seat. My legs were falling asleep, so I knew that if I made a break for it, I wouldn’t make it far. But I was thinking about it, because Betty hadn’t stopped talking.
Sure, she stays over at his place on weekends, but he’s promised me they don’t sleep together. I rolled my eyes. It didn’t take long for this fifty-something motherly-type to start looking like my twenty-something girlfriend who’s always explaining away her slimy boyfriends extra-curricular activities. Needless to say, I was ready to go. And finally, after hearing about her ten thousand dollar wedding ring, the one he’d asked her to wear again, and the way he makes her feel, just, so special, I found myself at the cashier’s desk, vibrating, as I wrestled the fight and flight response that had been building for the last forty-five minutes. I paid, gave Merinder an exorbitant tip—somehow, I felt guilty that she had to sit through that as well—and skipped out the door.
As I turned the corner out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of my fingers. I screeched to a halt. There it was, the dirt that had been there an hour ago, a day ago, all week. And my cuticles shone with poorly applied clear polish. And my thumb and pinky were filed square, while the rest were curved. I frowned and planned to stop at a drug-store for a new file and some nail polish remover. Needless to say, I got more than I paid for, and paid far too much.