I come from the land of instant gratification and I'm not ashamed to say that I'm addicted to that lifestyle. That's right, I'm a New Yorker, proud and true.
Sure, it's been a good four months since I've been back home long enough to get accustomed to the lifestyle of 11p.m. Chinese takeout, loud buses, street-corner entertainment, actual public transportation and real shopping.
Sometimes, I just close my eyes and pretend I'm right in the middle of a bustling metropolis, getting bumped into because people (ahem, tourists) don't realize that they are supposed to stay on the right - no matter what. Then I open my eyes, see the clumps of brown pollen outside of Hodson Hall and remind myself it's one more week until I'm home.
But I couldn't wait a week for this. I was desperate-I needed the works: a manicure, pedicure, and waxing. At home, this is beyond an acceptable request. There is nothing more common in New York than a woman who fancies a grooming.
However, in Chestertown, getting a decent manicure and pedicure is the worst game of hit or miss that I've ever played. I've gone to the same place on and off for three years. Sometimes they're good and sometimes they're not. Regardless, every time I go I am reminded why it takes desperation for me to return.
The conversation I have with the man doing my nails is always awkward.
"So, do you have a sexy date tonight?" he asks with a quiet smirk that screams sexual harassment.
"No, it's just for me," I reply, hoping this conversation doesn't move any further.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Nailman continues.
"Yes," I say, looking away.
"Oh, that's too bad," Nailman says, semi-winking.
"Ewwwwwww," I want to scream out loud, but I don't. My hands need to look ladylike. The conversation has officially creeped me out and makes me want to run out of the salon, not caring if my nails smudge.
My hairstylist back at home always told me that beauty takes sacrifice. I think that phrase applies ten-fold in Chestertown.
It's during these times that I remind myself that it's the Eastern Shore and that I came here for a reason: to escape the city and gain a greater appreciation for home. Anywhere else that nail technician would be fired. Anywhere else, a manicure and pedicure would be relaxing: I would be on my cell phone, gossiping with friends or listening to my iPod, staring at the ceiling. But, then again, who here needs to relax with a mani-pedi when everything else is so laid back?
Don't even get me started on the waxing - I know it's a bad idea to even ask if they do them down here. I spent an hour on about.com the other day reading about the best waxes to use. After my nail fiasco, I stood in Rite Aid for a half hour looking at every single waxing product. I had to think long and hard about this one; did I need extra strength or super sensitive? You may laugh, but I was serious. I had a mission to accomplish.
There's a reason why I don't do my own nails, waxing, hair cuts, and other female beauty acts. At the age of six, I decided that Melody, my favorite Barbie doll with long blonde hair, needed a new look. I took the scissors and chopped . . . everything . . . off her head. It was unintentional, I swear, but one side was uneven first and then the other side was, and then there was no longer any hair left.
That's been my experience in the whole self-beauty department. Professionals, my mother told me, go to school for a reason. It makes sense; people have to have training to make the not so good-looking into bombshells.
After having flashbacks of my Barbie doll beauty shop and recounting the just-a-little-too-personal nail job I just had, I figured I was scarred enough. It wouldn't be right to leave C-town having no hope for women's beauty routines. I know there has to be a place left that I haven't discovered yet and I have a year left to do it.
I started walking on Route 213 back to campus. About halfway back, I heard a loud honk from a grey truck passing by, a classic Chestertown catcall.
There it was, I thought, I finally cracked the beauty code: men couldn't care less about your nails, so why should women? Apparently, it's all in the way you move. It's the same sentiment in New York, but at least you get whistled at and maybe an invite to dinner if you're lucky. And in that case, your nails better look good.
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