The Nail Salon

There's one everywhere. There might be more nail salons than Starbucks. Women having their nails done, hands and feet, is an industry.

Only women? Well no. My wife tells me men have been seen by her in these emporiums having a pedicure, toenails clipped, but not painted. Jesus. You're kidding?

If anyone pays any attention to some details in these postings, then they'll know I recently had left shoulder rotator cuff repair. This was done in an ambulatory surgery setting on May 1 and required me to keep my left arm in a sling for six weeks.

When I checked in for the surgery I had already been fitted for the sling, and brought it with me. The nurse told me I'd wake up with it on. I did.

I'm left-handed to boot, so tying up my left arm and hand was especially inconvenient. But I managed to sleep on my right side, and I have to say I've made a good recovery, still going to physical therapy, and have now entered the second phase of it.

When I explained to the few people who asked what happened, I explained it was rotator cuff surgery and that I wasn't getting $10 million not to pitch for the rest of the season. Most people got what I was talking about.

How did you injure it? I didn't. At 74 with a long life behind me that included home maintenance of nearly every kind, painting, wallpapering gardening and wood working, I just wore my arm out. It happens.

My indentured servitude to my father started at an early age when I was called on to help him paint the two-family house in Flushing, a large two story wooden clapboard building built in 1923 that needed every inch of it painted periodically. And then there was the unattached two-car garage. I grew up with a paint brush in my hand. My left hand, which I surmise is where it all started.

And what kind of paint was applied to a wooden clapboard house in the 1950s? Why Dutch Boy paint made by the National Lead Company, an oil base paint that weighed a ton on a 3" brush. I can still remember my wrist sagging when I dipped the brush in for more paint. I don't remember how old I was when I was pressed into service.

Eventually, oil, lead paint gave way to water based latex paint, but still required the application by brush. As the years went by and my wife and I moved from the house in 1992 I had painted every corner of that place, several times over, inside and out.

The current house we're in didn't require as much maintenance, and by then I was paying someone to do any exterior painting. But not interior painting. So, add 30 more years of wear to the limb.

I noticed I was having a good deal of pain using the orbital sander for a woodworking project earlier this year. I assumed it was bursitis. But when it only seemed to get worse, and Tiger Balm was only giving me a rash, off I went to an orthopaedic group in Manhattan, one I've been to before for my knee.

A physical exam by the physician gave him the impression I had a rotator cuff tear. How torn would only be revealed by the MRI. My heart sank when he called to tell me the MRI results showed a tear that would only get worse and be harder to repair if left unattended. No amount of physical therapy was going to heal the tear without surgery. 

So May 1st was my first day of my arm in a sling. But I don't live alone, and my wife was able to help me get my shoes, socks and shirt on. However, my toenails had not been clipped just prior to the surgery, and were growing at whatever rate toenails grow. Getting the socks on was getting to be difficult for my wife. And there were six weeks of recovery to take place. So, what the hell am I supposed to do to get my toenails clipped?

I'm here to tell you that even with 48 years of marriage that doesn't mean your wife is willing to trim your toenails.  There isn't a pre-nuptial agreement, and even if there was, I seriously doubt any lawyer would insert a toenail clipping clause in there.

"You need to go a nail salon." 
"You're kidding. Guys go there?"
"Yes. I see guys there often enough."
"Okay, which one do I go to?"

I was told to go to Nissi Nails because my wife expected them to be cheaper since they were in a small storefront, within walking distance of the house. In fact, there must he four nail paces all within walking distance of the house.

I've had manicures when the barber shop that I used to go to had a manicurist. I know men get manicures, not so much pedicures. Having someone fuss over an extremity wasn't completely foreign to me. Perhaps even coincidental was that since they took Tucker Carlson off the air my wife has been hard put to find something to watch at 8:00 P.M. She's landed on ME-TV and repeats of The Andy Griffin show from the early '60s where he's the sheriff in Mayberry, lives with Aunt Bea, and his son Opie—which everyone by now knows is Ronnie Howard—and has Don Knotts as his deputy who keeps his sidearm fully loaded with one bullet.   

In an episode that was just on in our kitchen soon after dinner, I was treated to watching Barbara Eden (before I Dream of Jeannie) get off the bus when it reached Mayberry because the sign said it was full of friendly, decent people. Barbara's character is a manicurist who convinces the town's barber to let her set up and do manicures for a commission.

Of course she's attractive, but the men won't go for a manicure. Sheriff Taylor (Andy) is overheard by Barbara that she won't last in town. She should just get back on the bus. Well, she gets her feathers ruffled and tells the assembled men that she was wrong that the town is full of friendly, decent people.

Of course Andy is ashamed of himself and sets himself up as her first customer. Others follow. Happy ending in Mayberry.

 I've walked past enough nail salons to know there's a front portion where women seem to be getting their fingernails done, and a back, that I guessed is where you sit to present your feet.

What I didn't realize until I was deep into a place myself was that each of the elevated chairs you sat in—like getting your shoes shine—to present your feet is hooked into plumbing that delivers warm water to a basin where your feet are first soaked. There was a basin for what were 8 chairs in this place. I was impressed by what a setup like that had to cost.

And not just soaked in plain water; in something that looked like pink Jell-O. I was getting a spa treatment for my feet. I looked up at he prices and realized my wife was completely misinformed about what this was going to cost. $25. Plus of course tip.

Well, the toenails needed to be clipped, the soaking felt good, and while the attention seemed almost ceremonial and religious, I will admit that half an hour later when the woman was putting my shoes and socks back on, my feet felt good.

Since I knew the price, there was no surprise when I paid at the register. The tip was appreciated, and out I went back into the morning air.

Was it easier to have someone clip my nails rather than fight with them myself? Yes, but I won't be back. I have a good scissor taken from my gardening tools meant to clip flower buds that has plenty of torque to do the job myself.

But, if someone wants to give me a gift certificate for a birthday, Father's Day, or Christmas present, I won't protest.

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