So, there I was—wide-eyed and clueless—stepping into the nail salon for the first time. The scent of lavender lotion and acetone hit me like a wave, and I immediately realized two things: one, this was about to get very fancy, and two, I had no idea what the heck I was doing.
A smiling technician greeted me, “What can we do for you today?”
I froze. “Uhh… nail stuff?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Manicure or pedicure?”
Okay, this was already too complicated. Both involved nails, right? Why the multiple choice? In a panic, I blurted, “Sure, yes. Both.”
She handed me a laminated menu with words I’ve only seen on spa websites and Pinterest boards—“gel,” “acrylic,” “dip powder,” “chrome.” Chrome?? I’m getting a manicure, not upgrading my car!
“Just… regular?” I guessed. She smiled kindly, clearly clocking me as a lost soul, and waved me to a station.
The first hurdle came when she asked me to pick a color. I foolishly thought it would be as simple as “red” or “blue.” Oh no. The wall was a psychedelic display of tiny bottles labeled with absurd names like “Mermaid’s Whisper,” “Angry Unicorn,” and “Corporate Soul.”
“Uhh…” I hesitated, trying to decode the deeper emotional meaning of “Lavender Regret.” Finally, I pointed randomly at a neutral-looking bottle. “That one.”
She glanced at it and said, “Oh, that’s Mystic Beige. Great choice.”
Mystic Beige? Sure. I was going for “subtle panic” anyway.
Once I sat down, she started filing my nails with all the confidence of a sculptor carving a statue. I tried to stay relaxed, but the sensation was somewhere between ticklish discomfort and mild torture. “So, you do this a lot?” I asked nervously.
“Every day,” she said without looking up. “First time?”
“Is it that obvious?” I laughed awkwardly, praying she wouldn’t tell everyone about the terrified newbie in the chair.
Then came the cuticle part. Now, no one warned me about this. I thought cuticles were like… optional? But here she was, wielding tiny instruments like a mini-exorcist for dead skin. It was weirdly satisfying and horrifying all at once.
“Relax your hand,” she said, which was difficult since my hand had transformed into a stiff claw. “You okay?”
“Yep! Totally!” I chirped, as my soul tried to leave my body.
When the time came to dry my nails under the UV light, she slid my hand into the little device and said, “Don’t move for 60 seconds.”
I nodded like a pro—until my nose started itching. It was the most aggressive itch I’ve ever experienced in my life. Suddenly, all I could think about was that itch, and I had to fight the urge to touch my face.
“Don’t mess this up,” I whispered to myself, staring at my beautifully Mystic Beige nails like they were sacred artifacts.
But as soon as the light turned off, I triumphantly pulled my hand out—only to bump it against the side of the machine. My nail was instantly ruined.
“Oh no,” I gasped.
The technician looked at me, unamused but not surprised. She simply gave me that patient smile you reserve for toddlers and rookies. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix it.”
It was around this point I realized that the nail salon isn’t just a place where people get their nails done—it’s a battlefield of patience, self-control, and staying completely still despite every fiber of your being begging to twitch.
At the end, my nails looked surprisingly fantastic—glossy, neat, and almost too good for someone who doesn’t know the difference between a manicure and a pedicure. As I admired my hands, I felt weirdly powerful. I didn’t just have Mystic Beige nails; I had Mystic Beige energy.
I thanked my technician profusely, paid more than I probably should have (because I felt guilty for being so clueless), and strutted out of the salon like a fancy new person.
Only to immediately fumble with my car keys and chip one nail.
But hey, for five glorious minutes, I was unstoppable.
This could be a true story