Ultra Violet Gel Nails are my latest obsession. Definitely a splurge of sorts, they have become a staple in my “feel good” beauty routine. I have, therefore, begun treating myself to such lovely things as an hour or so every two weeks of perfect pampering at the hands of some of Stamford’s finest Asian techs. Chinese to be exact and actually only one. His name is Steven, or at least his salon name is. That he is Chinese, manages the nail salon that I frequent, and is a veritable UV artist is about all I know of him. Watching him work his magic several weeks ago, I began to consider this kid’s talent and thought to myself (something I totally DO NOT like to do while I am being pampered): the precision with which this twenty-something year old kid with wildly fantastic black hair tends to “my ten” (and on occasion “my twenty”) qualifies him for much more than life as a nail tech. The man is such a perfectionist and he handles the rotary file with such precision that, given the opportunity and the proper motivation he could become an accomplished surgeon.

In any case, although he probably deserves a post of his own for the fine job that he does making my nails acceptable despite two kids and my position as homemaker, this post is not about Steven. It’s about the “sanctuary of the salon” and the age-old query: To chit chat or not to chat? That is the question. (I dare you to try saying that three times quickly!) Anyone who has ever had their nails done knows precisely the dilemma of which I write. If you haven’t, then you don’t. Just sit back and relax for a few paragraphs. Funnier stuff is a’comin’.

After a past of struggling with whether or not I should be chatting with my nail tech whilst he rips away at my cuticles or files my fingertips to perfection, I have come to an understanding with myself: be silent! I have grown to consider the nail salon my sanctuary of sorts. After all, I really don’t enjoy chit chat. I’ve never been good at it, and anyhow, what the hell is wrong with a little silence?! Why are people so afraid of silence? It is WONDERFUL! So, in the name of sanity and the aesthetics of peace and quiet, I have allowed myself that one hour of selfishness every other week to sit, unplugged, and completely mute and enjoy, while my esthetician works. I have designated it “me time” and if that makes me a total bitch, so be it. I tip well!

Earlier today, midmorning, while I was probably supposed to be doing some bookkeeping, I sat comfortably in my favorite salon chair, staring off into the breeziest of distances, swept away by serene Asian music and entirely immersed in the beauty of nothingness as Steven tinkered away at the tip that I shattered last night on the headboard (no comments, please). All of a sudden I was awakened from my lovely state of self-induced deprivation. I should have known by the arctic blast of air that accompanied her through the door, that SHE entered the salon. It was the ever-dreaded TALKER. Beauty veterans, you know HER. She is the one woman in the whole damn place who JUST WON’T SHUT UP!!!! Since the beginning of this week couldn’t get any crappier without her, they went and sat her in the station RIGHT NEXT TO MINE! Needless to say, that was the end of my time out. I sat, still speechless, occasionally casting a glance the way of this “talking box” who turned out to be a dead ringer for a pip-squeak of a nun who lived in the room across the hall from me in the convent for my last three years in Rome, who, herself, was a dead ringer for a female version of Joe Pesci, looks and personality. I kid you not!

As you can imagine, thanks to “the Talker” I did not get my peaceful beauty treatment today. In the Christmas Spirit, however, I did make an effort to find an upside. First off, I got to know a lot more about Steven through “the mouth”. She wouldn’t stop asking him questions. Secondly, I got to screw with human nature. Yes, folks, I am definitely a bitch! After about thirty-five minutes of this woman’s mindless blabbering (lady, get a best friend or a therapist, please!) and just before the ninth time she mentioned that she was soooooo sick for the last three weeks and couldn’t come in for a fill, I thought to myself: “If I’m going to put up with this, I am going to have some fun.” Just then she began to brag about her up and coming vacation and how she needed a new set before she left. Blah, blah, blah… we’re taking the kids to Disney, but it’s not really a vacation… it’s hard work… yadda, yadda, yadda. This is where I decided to bust in just to see how far she would take it. In ten simple words I was able to provoke and gather the scientific proof that talking is truly a sickness for “the Talker” and gosh-golly jeepers they’ll use anything as an invite to talk!

Says me: “It’s only a real vacation if the kids stay home.” (Insert a “leave me the f*&k alone” grin here) That was it! She was all over the comment like a fish on a wiggly worm! She was out of the gate in a flash, wagging her tongue at me to no end! It was all I could do to keep a straight face and be kind enough to acknowledge that she was talking, but not enough to encourage her. I could barely make out a word she said, as the mindless blur of chit chat went flying past me like the bullets that are constantly sent towards Neo in the Matrix Trilogy!

It’s a good thing that Steven is “The One” a Wise savior. He moved me out of there in no time to a secondary drying station. All I can say is thank goodness for quick dry!