I like “experiences”.
There are so many mundane things that occur throughout our daily lives. Errands, obligations, dinners out and lots of other stuff. So when I come across something that turns those, or anything else, into an experience instead of a humdrum interaction, I’m all about it.
Examples? Jason and I gravitate toward the same local restaurant roughly once a week. We love everything about it – the food, the wine, the servers, the vibe. We go so often that a couple of the servers have become more like old friends who know exactly what we like and remember things we ordered weeks before. Experience.
I have been going to the same eyebrow lady since I moved back here. She’s not only amazing, but when I have my child in tow she starts giving her stuff to keep her busy and off my lap so I don’t walk out looking like a Chonga with penciled in brows. Sometimes, she even has gifts purchased and waiting not even knowing when she’s going to see her next. Experience.
iPic in Mizner is another winner. It’s genius really, and scars you from slumming it a regular movie theater ever again. It makes Cinemark Palace look like a dump. I get to watch a movie, in a recliner, cozy with a blanket, with food and wine. All I have to do is press a little button to get anything I need. I’d love a button like this in my house. Sign me up. Only thing that would make it better was if they could wheel me home, asleep in the recliner and tuck me in. Experience.
Give me an”experience” and you will win me as a loyal customer pretty much forever.
So, that brings me to my happy place.
There are more nail salons per capita in Boca than BMWs and boob jobs. They are everywhere. There are at least 5 I know of in walking distance to my house. I really wasn’t sold on any of them. I didn’t dislike them, but I wasn’t wowed. And then one day I tried yet another one. And by the luck of the draw I got paired with the best manitherapist ever. We fell in love and I will be loyal to her forever. And it’s a bonus because she’s a package deal – her neighboring manitherapist included. Both equally hilarious and blunt.
You know when you have those friends who after decades of friendship you reach a point where there are no boundaries, no topics off-limits, no modesty and no holds barred? The three of us reached that point on day one. Experience.
We all know Boca has its characters and at this joint, I have a front row seat because they all seem to come here. There’s a patron who insists on wearing a towel over her face during her appointments, not unlike a Burka. Another with white hair and thick black eyebrows that look like they were drawn in using chocolate pudding. And a couple of men who rival the females for most plastic surgery.
I have a standing appointment every two weeks and it’s my most favorite luxury in the entire world. Usually when I am getting any kind of spa-like service done, I like to zone out. Massage – please don’t talk to me. Pedicure – please just let me read a trashy magazine in silence while you talk about me in another language. Manicure – let me just watch the TV behind your head and not have to utter a word while we mutually agree to ignore each other. And it’s not because I’m mean. I literally spend all day at work talking. Talking to analysts, talking to press, talking to coworkers. So for that hour right after work, I just want to veg out and not talk about gas prices or the weather. I promise I’m gonna tip you the same whether you ask me about my personal life or not. But here – it’s totally different, that’s not an option.
They. Know. Everything. And not because they are nosy or pry – the patrons love to air their dirty laundry. I think they must forget that they are not in a doctor’s or lawyer’s office protected by 15-page confidentiality clauses. They all sing like canaries.
My manitherapists know who’s sleeping with who, who’s a closeted homosexual, who’s dabbling in drugs, who’s in need of rehab for doing more than dabbling, who’s getting divorced, who’s cheating and pretty much any other salacious thing happening east of Federal Highway.
I also learned that Fridays are when the freaks come in. Strippers, hookers, basically anyone in the sex trade business. Right after their Brazilian wax, anal bleaching and fake bake complete with playboy bunny stencils on their FUPA, their next step is to get their 4 inch acrylics french manicured. It’s now on my bucket list to ditch my standing time at least once and come on a Friday when the freak flags are at full mast. I’m not sure if this is a universal nail salon thing, but i’m intrigued.
One of the biggest shocks of my life was hearing that it’s actually possible to get blackballed from a nail salon. Can’t make this shit up people!
One time, a patron on her phone having a conversation at a 10 when she needed to be at a 3, was flailing her arms around like a lunatic and “accidentally” got nicked with the electric file. She was so pissed she actually threatened to slap the manicurist, when in reality she was the one who deserved a little slap. Or a CP. I can’t use the actual word because I promised my mother I wouldn’t use the C word on my blog anymore, but the P is for Punt and it rhymes with the first word.
After that episode…banned.
And there’s other examples like that.
Apparently, they used to spoil their customers with wine on Fridays during the late afternoon/early evening appointments. Then some assholes (i have my money on pudding brows) got too drunk and they decided to end happy hour. I’m rallying to bring it back.
The manicurist/manicuree relationship is a sacred bond. I’m pretty sure mine and her cohort know more about me than my OBGYN and that doesn’t even weird me out. It’s abnormally normal. Also, I’m not even a little bit offended when mine tells me she saw me coming down the street and knew it was me by the size of my ass. They don’t make a lot of white girls like me so I guess it stuck with her. My own family calls me Ray-lo so I really can’t blame her.
I also trust her inherently. I ask more questions and give more instructions when ordering a cup of coffee at SBUX than I do getting my nails done. After my first few visits and getting my signature murdered out nails (all black for those of you not fluent in Ghetto), she told me no on the 4th time. I had my own little manivention where she told me I needed to change it up. Ever since then, I stopped asking and just let her choose.
Each sesh is jam-packed with inappropriateness, griping, cursing and venting – most of it from them. And I love every nail polish remover-scented moment.
It’s like a show and you don’t know if it’s gonna be a hit or a train wreck, but either way it’s a win-win.
It’s probably my favorite experience and I’m now one of them during that hour. Like my own little manicure mafia.