Unpolished

A mix of moms and teenage girls packed into the tiny, subterranean nail salon. I had noticed it's grand opening sign a week ago on my way to the grocery store. A few days later, a new friend suggested we meet up to try out the new place.

That's how we came to be crammed into the small space, latte's in hand, waiting for our turn in the magenta, pleather massage chairs. My friend, Lisa, had called ahead for appointments, but it was obvious there were still plenty of kinks to be worked out. The short, plump woman behind the reception desk was visibly sweating. When we reached her perch, she explained to us in heavily accented English that we were next on the list for two side-by-side chairs.

"I'm so annoyed," Lisa said, glancing at her Apple watch. "This is why I made an appointment. If this is the way they do things around here, the business is going fail," she proclaims, glancing at the long line behind us.

"They're probably still figuring it all out," I say, feeling guilt-by-association for her impatience.

After another long ten minutes in line, we climbed into our squishy pedicure chairs, handing our shoes and handbags to our sheepish technicians.

"Does this thing have a massage feature?" Lisa asked no one at all. She just posed the question in a rhetorical manner, and when she was met with silence, she huffed her disapproval.

I handed over the tangerine polish I brought from home while Lisa asked her technician for a french pedicure. I furrowed my brow. I hadn't realized that a french pedicure existed or that is was a currently a thing. As far as I knew french manicures came and went in the 1990s.

"So how Hannah liking St. Roberts?" I say, trying to lighten the mood a little. Her daughter had just started fifth grade at the same school where my kids were.

"It's been ok. She likes the kids, but some of the teachers are subpar. Which is super annoying because we are paying a fortune in tuition."

"Hmmm." I try to think of a diplomatic thing to say. We've been very happy with St. Roberts. No school is perfect, and it's hard not to take her criticism personally. In fact, I felt a little guilty for recommending her family to the school in the first place. I had no idea she was such a pain in the ass. I wince inwardly.

" Well, hopefully things will smooth out for her." I force a smile and try another subject. "How're the plans for your new house coming?"

"Don't get me started," she says with a sarcastic smirk. "The architect is a real loser. He must think I'm stupid or something because he keeps on trying to overcharge me for his hours, but he's in for a surprise if he thinks I'm actually going to pay his bill." Her cheeks are flushed with exhilaration, as though she just ran a half marathon.

I wrack my brain for another, more neutral subject when she jerks her foot away from the technician.

"Too rough," she proclaims, then gingerly returns her foot to padded ledge. She huffs her disapproval, then turns back to me as though nothing has transpired.

My technician flashes me a pained look. She swipes at a rivulet of sweat running down her along her temple. We can both feel the tension coming from the poor soul perched on the stool next to her.

"They look great," I reassure her, trying to send a telepathic message. I might be here with this monster, but I am not like her. You are safe with me. I will treat you with respect.

"Oh my god, the smell of all the polish is giving me a headache." At this point I am completely uncomfortable. Lisa's behavior is seriously stressing me out.

"It's not so bad, " I say, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Do you have a fan you can turn on?" Her voice is loud and cadence slow, as if she is speaking to someone who's hearing is impaired.

"I can ask, m'am," the nail technician responds levelly, avoiding eye contact with the monster beside me.

"You would think they would build in some kind of ventilation system when they were setting up the shop. I can barely breath in here," she whines.

"Seems pretty typical to me." At this point I am mortified. I have lost all patience for my "friend," who as of this moment is no longer my friend. She just doesn't know it yet.

Lisa's technician returns lugging a large fan and sets it up so it is blowing in Lisa's direction.

"Can you tilt it down a little so it's not blowing in my eyes?"

I focus my attention on my toes, which are now a gorgeous shade of persimmon. Thank god this nightmare is almost over. I look over at Lisa's toes and am dismayed when I notice the woman's trembling fingers attempting to paint the white edges of Lisa's french pedicure. I glance up at Lisa, who is also watching the progress with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Oh crud.

We sit in silence for a few minutes watching the technician finish all ten of Lisa's toes. I notice Lisa's rapid breathing, her chest literally puffing up as she gets ready to deliver the final smackdown. She's reveling in her power, fueled by contempt and misplaced rage.

"That looks terrible," she announces. "You need to do it again. Bring me some red polishes to choose from."

"That's enough, Lisa." I find my voice. "You could have said something before she finished all of your toes."

Lisa's nail technician, stands, eyes downcast.

"You're finished." I announce.

Finally, it seems as though Lisa doesn't have words.

"My treat," I say flatly. I hand my credit card to my technician. "For both of us," I tell her. "You did a great job," I say gently.

"I'm giving them a one star review," Lisa huffs.

"Don't you dare."

Avoiding eye contact, Lisa slips on her flipflops and hobbles out of the salon. Alone.