Sunday Salon

Every few weeks I allow for some self-imposed self-care. I have a hard time accepting that I’m worthy of nice things, small luxuries. Even more difficult for me, paying for services that are intended to relax me, riddles me with crippling anxiety. Can we afford this? Could this money be better spent elsewhere? What if the money I’m spending on a massage for myself ends up being money that would have prevented us from resorting to theft of packaged meat at the grocery store in two months when we both lose our jobs? Won’t I feel like an asshole then?

I’m very conservative when it comes to my finances. It’s ridiculous how tight I am with our money sometimes. Others I’m like, “We both need AirPod Pros and a new computer. We need them right now! Let’s get a brand-new bed while we’re at it.” Then I spend the night wide awake doing mental math on car payments, mortgage & groceries, then silently crying into my pillow while cursing my impetuousness. I’m disappointed the bottom line on the account balances are not what they were this morning. I’m frantically calculating the months end balance.

So, every 2-3 weeks it’s a huge deal when I spend $100 on a manicure/pedicure. Granted, I get top shelf shit, but if you’ve seen my feet, you understand. When you do a fuckton of running, your feet can get to looking pretty tore up. Yes, I will pay extra for the moisturizing hot wax dip. Anything you can do to reverse the signs of this ‘I walked across the desert barefoot’ vibe I’m throwing off is appreciated and will be tipped for generously. Then I sit back, relax, and try not to make eye contact. They can feel my shame, I know it. And honestly, if one of them makes a face (like a grimace) I don’t think my ego could handle it.

Last weekend I went in for my usual. I was content, feeling worthy, and relatively confident the staff wasn’t talking shit about me. That’s when they walked in…

At 5 mins to close, two young women puttered in. Brash and unapologetically overconfident, they walked straight in and began demanding things. From the jump I knew these two were going to be problematic.

I’m going to call them Angelika [An-gel-è-kuh] and Sophia [thing 2].

They appear to have consulted one another while selecting the day’s attire. In nearly matching shoulderless dresses, they had that ‘just bottle bronzed’ sheen to their skin. Similar hair styles only added to the rejected Sadie Hawkins day dance energy. And did I mention they were loud? So goddamn loud.

Perhaps if they had been wearing the then required masks, the obnoxious requests falling from their mouths would have been muffled. Alas, they just kept up with their egocentric behavior and rude snapping of fingers to get attention.

“Can we get a massage? Which pedicure is the most expensive? I’m gonna that one. Yo, is there anyone to give me a massage?” Then they invited in the man who was with them. He’d been sitting quietly outside the salon this whole time. They beckoned for him as if maybe he wanted to be part of this event.

I gripped the sides of my chair, hoping to quell the desire to punch Angelika in the face. She is ruining my goddamn Zen.

She and her buddy are exchanging little jokes in Spanish. They think they’re inside jokes. They aren’t.

What the Twatsy Twins don’t know is that I speak Spanish. I’m eavesdropping like a motherfucker! I’m just waiting for one of them to say some off-color remark about the old lady [me] sitting next to them who cannot seem to stop staring at them. I’m planning my argument. It’s thorough, direct, insulting, and 100% accurate. I’m a genius.

I will make one, if not both, cry. I’m grinning beneath my mask.

Nothing. Nada. Niet. These bitches aren’t going to give me cause. I just need one little disparaging comment to set me off. I will light them the fuck up. I’ve got nothing to work with, so I behave.

Being disciplined is utter bullshit.

I spend good money to escape my husband and child for the hour I’m here, I want one of them to cry! I’m so far from Zen that I’m not even on a map anymore.

My mani/pedi now complete, it’s time to go. I release the death grip I have on the handles and pour myself out of the chair.

No witty insults, no well-grounded rage – I simply toss a disapproving glance in their direction and make my way to the counter to pay. This is the shittiest 100 bucks I’ve spent in a long time. I say a silent prayer.

Dear God,

Today I really need your help. If you’re listening, can you please make sure one of those girls gets fungus. Like, really bad fungus. Can you smite the other with an ingrown toenail? I don’t ask for a lot, and I don’t ask often, but this is important and would mean a great deal to me. Thanks! Love you bunches!

Just before walking out, I turn to smile at them. I wink at Sophia. Good luck with that toe, sister.

Buddy Christ - Wikipedia

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