The Nail Salon

I went to Washington D.C. this weekend for my sister's bachelorette party. The day of the event I told my sister that I was taking her to an art museum, but I took her to a nail salon instead.

"Surprise!" I screamed. "We're getting manicures!"
My sister was thrilled. "This place is ghetto," she said flatly.

It's not my fault that the only nail salon in the city that didn't require reservations or have a forty-five minute wait on a Friday afternoon happened to be located in a seedy strip mall next to a pawn shop and a 7-11.

"Get whatever you want," I encouraged, pointing to a display of fake fingernails, "But I personally like rainbows and small cats."


My sister thanked me for my input, but said she didn't need my help.

"What about this nail polish?" I asked, holding up a bottle. "It reminds me of something."

"Sixth grade?" my sister suggested. The bottle read 'Wet n' Wild.'


The process of getting our nails done was relatively painless. Except for the fact that the manicurist forgot to paint the sides of my fingernails and I couldn't stop touching things before my polish dried, everything went well.

"I look like I dipped fingernails into white paint," my sister complained, holding out ten severely disfigured french tips.

After looking at my fingernails, my sister decided that hers weren't so bad after all.

"I need you to stop at the drug store," she told me as we left the salon. "I have to get something for the party tonight."

I waited patiently in the car while my sister made her purchase.

When she got back into the car, I noticed that her fingernail polish was gone.

"Did you get what you needed?" I asked.

My sister glanced at my hands and just smiled.