Many Things Do Not Fly

Below is a quote taken from an internet site where people can review their experiences at local businesses:

February 22, 2008 “I went to Red Nails because it’s close to my house. But NEVER again! You really do get what you pay for. Nina, the Manager, did my acrylic fill in about 10 minutes. She barely understands English, is rude and mangled my poor cuticles because she’s so distracted “yelling” at all the women that work there (in another language, of course). This place makes you feel like you are in a cheap car wash. Next time I will go further to a reputable hotel for my fills.”

I’m going to Red Nails because City Pages says it’s great and a great deal. It has the added appeal that there are a few REALLY bad reviews on line. I get suspicious of any review that mentions not speaking English as a huge drawback, mentioning it twice is even better. I noticed that almost every bad review mentioned that the management and employees didn’t speak good English.

A typical pedicure costs around 70 bucks. My good friend Bill would quickly calculate that out to 7 bucks a toe. It’s more than I can justify spending on such frivolity. But 30 bucks? I can swing that. Even if it means I have to repeat myself sometimes, and can’t have a deep conversation with the woman scrubbing my feet.

I went to Red Nails with my friend Lydia. She was the only person daring enough to go with me. The girls were nice, the manager today was an Asian man, clean-cut, in a button down suit and pressed slacks. The place isn’t the lap of luxury, I’ll admit that. The waiting area chair was wobbly, and it’s true, no one was fluent in English. But I’d say the cost (about half what a similar treatment usually costs) and the incense laden altar to Buddha with a whole papaya on a plate in front of it made up for the less than stellar communication skills.

Lydia and I decided if we were in charge of the place, we’d lose both of the TVs ( I hate TVs in public places) and turn off the fluorescent overhead lighting and replace it with lamps at each chair. We’d put on relaxing music and crank up the incense one more notch. Other than that, it was a cool place, a fun afternoon outing. Took about a half an hour.

Lydia giggled so hard that I couldn’t talk to her during the scrubbing part. When I asked the girls doing our feet if they get a lot of people laughing, they didn’t understand. That was the only time I wished for better English skills. I bet they see lots of interesting stuff.

We were soaked, soaped, pumiced, scrubbed, massaged, clipped, filed, cuticle pressed, painted., paraffin dipped, peeled and dried. Oh, and we got a calf massage, which I think I could do without.

There was one moment as I was sitting I my massage chair with remote control, soaking one foot and having the other one thoroughly scrubbed up that I looked around and thought, “My god, this looks for all the world like slavery.” (Well except for the part where they get paid) .

Every single employee was Asian (Vietnamese I think). All but the manager were female, they all dressed mostly the same in print smocks and high heels. All squatting on little stools in front of happy, joking white women and doting on their feet. It creeped me out just a little. That, and the fact the employees  never smiled, except for the polite kind of smile.

I got to thinking, what if they all are brought over as sort of indentured servants or something. How would I ever know? I tipped generously.