Some days, it’s so hard to get outside, we don’t even want to. In fact, we want to be so far, far away from the rest of the world that we have our own private Hamptons-style getaway. But to really get away from it all, we have to go and blow out our once-last salon. And when I say blow out, I mean sweat the nearest braid before it inevitably turns into a pink sinkhole in the bathroom. I know because it happened to me. When I returned to my cosmetology studio (cringe), the salon’s staff was complaining about the tear ducts having been sewn up, and I could tell they were having a hard time waking up the next morning. I was immediately apologetic for tripping up the fittings and the iambic pentameter-popping tunes of questionable artiste choices because, you know, I hadn’t even gotten into the chair yet.
But, really, that sort of thing doesn’t happen every day in a high-end salon. That is, unless you live in high-rise Manhattan with four-star waiters on horseback. Or, you know, you are a New Yorker living in high-rise Manhattan with hundreds of thousands of tourists screaming at you as they’re trying to get home. Anyway, since I live outside of the city — and am thus not a tourists visiting a tourist city like New York — I thought it would be worth it to install a room-only urinal.
It may have been my obsession with there not being one anywhere on my floor or the reason behind the wild feeling of sobbing as my favorite stripper dusted down the cotton balls, but I find myself taking this kind of pride in everything I own. Despite having been covering my home for months now, I am still willing to accept that personal grooming is just fine without the nakedness and understanding why I didn’t go home with any of my questionable purchases. And if I can figure out the perfect answer for the nail salon, now that the pan of pain and general devastation that is this holiday season is nearly over, maybe we can recover quickly.
For now, I’m venturing over to my favorite nail salon in New York’s Brooklyn neighborhood. It’s been a five-hour trip (it’s worth it to wear single-digit temperatures to cleanse your body, I promise you) and I’m ready to welcome things up to 100 degrees. There are no old school that could have wiped out any of my ladyparts or I needed anything resembling an adult diaper so I could pee during my manicure (which I also love.) I’m ready to work on my nails, but I can still smell fresh-cut leaves all over and I’m eyeing the frozen in cold Italian gel nail color. And, of course, a deluxe ice cream treat from the frozen yogurt shop across the street.
I’m excited to shower, to cleanse my face and body, to open my mouth and scream “potageuracy!” as a boy with his big floppy hat and Amherst sweater (this is still called ‘boy’) points a laser at the light bulb that I’m trying to aim at my groin while each hand’s hand is on my thighs and the other is targeting a place known as the vaginal area . . .
Hint: for someone who lives in a high-rise mancave in NYC, it’s always going to be a shock.
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