Getting a manicure is a special kind of torture. You walk inside full of hope as you see happy faces leaning back in their Sharper Image-grade massage lounges. Then you’re forced to sit in a hard chair and strip off your jewelry as a woman in a mask ominously unrolls a case of sterilized tools. She proceeds to grab your fingers and slowly rips out your cuticles one by one before pouring rubbing alcohol over the gaping wounds.
When she’s done with you, you pay her thirty-five dollars and walk out the door admiring your gorgeous nails with their shiny new paint job with some super pun-tastic name like, “I Sup-Posey Pink.” I abhor manicures. I realize that to most women I may as well have just said “I hate puppies,” but over the years I’ve learned that a lot of activities touted for their awesomeness are really just pure evil wrapped in a pretty package.
Sunbathing is another such example. You lay in the sun all day with your arms strategically draped in unnatural positions whilst sweat beads form on your upper lip and five hours later you’re a coconut-basted lobster with an awkward tan-stash. And facials? Holy ouch.
Sure “beauty is pain,” but that rules was meant to apply to stilettos, waxing, and those horrifically brutal seats on spin bikes – not items on a spa menu under the heading “ultimate day of healing”. Why do we do this to ourselves? What makes us think these things constitute any form of R&R? Why do we sit inside a chamber of hot steam cleansing our pores with the salt from our own tears?
I don’t know the answer, but my little spray-tanned self will be painting her own nails from this day forward.