grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Who’s Your Sugar Daddy?

By

Yesterday at the nail salon I
a) nearly drowned
b) was almost electrocuted
c) both a and b

The soundtrack at my insanely entertaining nail salon yesterday was The Lonely Goatherd from The Sound of Music.  You remember the song – Maria and the children sang it during the marionette show for the Father, the number with all the yodeling. The song was apparently stuck, playing over and over, but naturally I was the only one who seemed to notice. 

The girl in the spa chair adjacent to me began talking to the customer in the far chair about her sugar daddy. This piqued my curiosity. She gushed on and on, having to speak loudly over the yodeling goatherd. “You will looooove my sugar daddy.” How brazen! People will say anything.

I pretended to play Angry Birds as I waited for the hot water to fill the bowl at my feet, nonchalantly glancing over at this girl with the sugar daddy from time to time. She had big Katy Perry eyes framed by very long, lush eyelashes. Was this Katy Perry sitting next to me? She had chewed up fingernails which did not pair well with those thick luxurious eyelashes. I wondered what her sugar daddy thought about that nasty little habit? 

As the yodeling seemed to get louder, it became more difficult to eavesdrop. “I loved Fiji too!” she positively gushed with excitement. Well, I guess so. She obviously hit the jackpot. He took those gnawed nails to Fiji!? 

Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay hee hoo.

Just at that moment water began to spew out from underneath one of the middle spa chairs like a fountain. It flowed across the floor around all the chairs. The nail workers began pointing and chattering and stuffing towels everywhere, attempting to sop up the rising water. As another lady began to mop and bail, everyone else quickly turned back to their buffing and polishing like nothing had happened, as if a nail salon flood was business as usual. 

As the water creeped toward my chair, I felt the massage component inside my chair jolt and jerk a bit. Quickly grabbing the remote, I turned off the massage feature before I found myself ejected across the street into the Texaco station or worse. “You no want massage?” Kim asked me, looking dumbfounded. “I no want to be electrocuted!”

Amazingly, this flooded salon continued to seat new customers, wading them through the water as they looked around a bit confused. Maybe we should sand bag? Katy Perry’s friend tiptoed through the puddle of water toward the front to pay, careful not to make a wake.  As she passed Katy she said, “I looove my sugar daddy. It’s the perfect shade of pink.” Dang. It was a polish color. I was NOT on top of my game. That yodeling was throwing me off.

talya

Musical Pairing

Tom Jones, “Sugar Daddy”
Julie Andrews, “My Favorite Things”

Yet Another Insane Nail Salon Story

By

80 degrees calls for a pedicure. Pulling into the parking lot early, I was happy to see no customers there yet. The five employees were practically in a receiving line, so thrilled to see my neglected toes stroll in. Was I the 5,000th customer on this Leap Day? Would there be balloons? Guess not. After carefully selecting my polish – I debated between “Suzi Loves Cowboys” and “I Don’t Give a Rotterdam!” – I settled into the massage chair with a copy of Bon Appetit, which of course made me hungry. About halfway through the routine, it was still quiet and peaceful, and I began to think this might just be my most uneventful experience at this place. Ever. Knock-on-wood. 

A girl walked in to get her legs waxed. Wow. Her whole legs? That must be painful and expensive. The ladies became a bit animated over this. There was chattering and pointing about who would take on this assignment. After a Vietnamese rock-paper-scissors game, the lady already doing my feet, disappeared into the back room with the leg wax girl, and my toes were shuffled off to a lesser technician. 

A few minutes later, an older lady came in for a nail fill. She sat near me and was attended to quickly. Still later, a well dressed businessman entered, with a rolled poster tucked underneath his arm. He spoke to the salon owner, explaining that he was selling ads for the Woodrow Wilson High School football calendar to be published next fall. Would the salon purchase a small ad for $100? The owner was suddenly struck mute. No one spoke. Everyone looked around in complete silence. The only sound was a Vietnamese instrumental rendition of Bridge Over Troubled Waters playing in the background. It was awkward.

Suddenly, the nail fill lady jumped in wholeheartedly with both feet and hands speaking to the businessman, as if the salon workers couldn’t hear her – “Yes, that is a good thing to do! A local business should support the local schools. Businesses only want us to support them. They should give back too!” She asked to see the calendar. “Oh that’s a very, very nice calendar. (Two verys with a s-l-o-w emphasis on the last very.) They should definitely buy an ad.” And on and on she went. I became suspicious. They had to be in cahoots! It really was a brilliant routine. The owner never spoke but looked a bit faint, as he wrote out the check. Woodrow Wilson High School can thank the well oiled tag team for that $100. 

After the excitement died down, it became quiet again. As my toes dried, I relaxed and listened to my Ipod. I could almost nap. As the technician finished and began putting my flip flops back on, I opened my eyes to see my perfectly polished “Suzi Loves Cowboys” toes perched in bizarro, hand-painted, flowered shoes! “No, those aren’t mine – my flip flops are right there”, I pointed. “No, for you. Gift for you.”

“Huh?”

“Yes, gift.” I sat there stunned with those odd wooden oriental shoes on my feet which so did not go with my blue Dallas Mavericks Western Conference Finals t-shirt and khaki cargo capris. I looked around for John Quinones and the hidden camera. 

Was I the 5,000th customer? This was the most peculiar thing. I tried to stand, but it was difficult on hard, 2-inch high, wooden flip flops – similar to those 1970s Dr. Scholls sandals I could never quite maneuver. Not only were they uncomfortable and NOT my style, they were huge on my feet. I clopped to the door like a freakin’ Clydesdale horse – CLOP CLOP CLOP. They watched me wobble to my car in those things – they stood at the window and smiled like they were so proud. Will they expect me to wear these next time? I really must find another salon or move back to Arkansas asap! I wonder if Woodrow Wilson needs a donation for the silent auction? 

talya

Musical Pairings:

Simon and Garfunkel, “Bridge Over Troubled Water”
Steve Karmen, “Here Comes the King” (Budweiser Clydesdale Horse jingle)



mirror mirror

By

Things work out just as they should. To paraphrase verses from King James on this Sunday evening before the Lenten Season, the Lord works in mysterious ways.  It’s actually a good thing that my up-close vision is blurry. I don’t really want to see the stray random hairs apparently growing on my upper lip. I don’t see them at all unless I’m in Arkansas in my mother’s bedroom where for some unknown reason she has a magnifying telescope mirror making even brainwaves visible. I avoid that mirror. It’s a crazy fun house mirror exposing future flaws and skin damage not yet visible to the normal naked eye. She loves that mirror. 


When I was at the nail salon a few weeks ago, Na asked, “You want wax?” “No, my eyebrows are fine.” These people are the absolute best at cross-selling. They have no shame whatsoever. If someone peeps inside the salon, but decides the wait looks too long and turns around to leave, the owner will run the customer down in the parking lot, dragging her back inside. “Only one minute you wait! Only one minute! You sit there,” then they all begin to chatter and point at each other, forcing the trapped customer into a huge lazyboy-like spa chair where she will sit in shock for at least another 20 minutes. These nail people make me feel guilty if I don’t spring for the callous cream – an extra buck – like the whole pedicure is a total waste without it.  “Những phụ nữ da trắng có giá rẻ!” Hmmmm. I don’t need the callous cream. And I don’t need an eyebrow wax. 


Na glanced at my eyebrows which were totally hidden by my bangs anyway, and continued, “What about you mustache? You want wax?” “No! I don’t have a mustache!” Do I? This was all a ploy to make whatever baby-fine, invisible blonde hairs I might have grow thicker and darker forcing me into a mustache waxing routine. I knew that trick. Or maybe I just couldn’t see it – maybe I did have a mustache? I would not start waxing my lip no matter what crop starts growing there. Not unless Kelsey tells me I need to, of course. 

Why on earth would a woman ever marry a younger man? Demi Moore, for instance, is 15 years older than Ashton. Is it an ego boost? forbidden fruit? someone to boss around? to make Bruce Willis jealous? or true love? Regardless, what incredible pressure that must have been for Demi all those years! She must secretively be relieved that relationship is over. She had to know it was only a matter of time. He can clearly see her recently sprouted mustache, she cannot, he’s moving on. Good riddance – he’s grody anyway – I can still see well enough at any distance to know that. Wouldn’t she rather be with someone who was actually alive when she appeared on General Hospital and St. Elmo’s Fire?

According to an article in the journal Demography, a woman who marries a younger man (by at least 7 years) has a 20% greater mortality rate than if she were with a man the same age. It’s all that stress from waxing. Just say NO!

talya

Musical Pairings:

Frankie Avalon, “Beauty School Drop-Out”
John Parr, “St. Elmo’s Fire”

“This mirror will give us neither knowledge or truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.” Albus Dumbledore 

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!