Also Yesterday I met a CRAZY BITCH/ Don't go to L.A. Nails & Spa
When I got home my head was pounding harder than a Jehovah’s Witness on the front door. I sat down and took my temperature four times willing it to increase so I wouldn’t have to go to school on Friday. It was 99.1 each time, thus I sulked until Erin Kennedy called and reminded me today was the only day we could go together to get our nails done for prom.
Here I make a conjecture: God made me feverish to deter me from going to get my nails done and I ignored all signs.
Erin had printed out a list of places and their addresses but I am terrible with directions and so I decided to pull into the first shoddy-looking nail salon I saw. “L.A. Nails & Spa”.
We walked in to an all-but empty shop (a sign!). Two Vietnamese women, (ahh! A sign! Just kidding) sitting on a couch waiting for customers, greeted us. Erin and I sat uncomfortably while they scraped the surface of Erin’s nails off with that drill-sounding scraper, because if you want acrylic nails the first rule is DESTROY HEALTHY FINGERNAILS AT ALL COSTS. Knowledgeable about this I opted to get a French manicure on my real nails, because I was unaware that the women at L.A. Nails & Spa are CRAZY BITCHES.
Erin and I sat blinking while the women said things like this “Dunkeen Keen bon dat treetree klingclaengkloong dan” to each other which I could only assume makes sense in Vietnamese. Erin said, “If they were speaking English it would be really weird if they were talking to each other like this in front of us.” She said it as if our English conversation would sound just as nonsensical to them as the Vietnamese sounded to us, and I was nervous that they secretly spoke fluent English, so I disagreed. “That’s not true. When I’m at the dentist the dental assistants talk over my head to each other through their little mouth masks like I’m not even there. They’re always talking about baby showers, because one of them is always pregnant.”
At this the woman who was doing my nails (I think she was around 40) perked up. “Who baby showah?” She smiled. I tried to explain about the dental assistants to her, and also my observation that their names always seem to end in “i/ie/y” sounds. (Like Bobbi/Laurie/Jacky) The woman who was doing my nails just nodded and said “baby showah” again, so I guess she didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. I thought we were bonding because when she slid my hands into this weird gel and placed them in warm oven mitts (which confused me) I said, “eww!” and she giggled and said “Eww!! Heehee! Eww!” and I think I felt a little proud that I had taught her a new word, probably like John Rolfe when he taught Pocahontas the word “pneumonia, which you will die of here in England.”
Anyway, when she had finished my nails looked really bad. I’m pretty sure I could have given myself a better manicure while being tortured, and I didn’t find it unreasonable to ask her to re-do three of my fingernails where she had smeared the white tip into the clear part so it looked like marble. She looked up at me and I must have looked really unhappy with the job she’d done, because she got out the nail-polish remover and started taking off the whole thing. Bewildered, I cried, “Stop! What are you doing? It’s fine, it’s only those three that need to be fixed!” But the woman was like, “No, no. She do for you. She do for you.” Indicating the woman who was doing Erin's nails. But I was like, “Stop! Stop! Stop! What are you doing!?” and I tried to pull my hands away but she kept taking off all the polish, and when she was done she fled into the back room, looking like she was about to cry.
I looked at Erin, who said, “Uh…long day?” And I was like, “Must have been. Let’s just go”, because Erin had already paid and I was not about to sit for another hour and a half, plus I didn’t feel good and I was confused. Ivy, the woman who’d put on Erin’s acrylics, who also happened to be the manager, saw me picking up my things and said, “Nonono, sit down I make you happy.” And I said, “No, that’s okay, we’re going to go.”
Ivy said, “Nonono, I make you happy. Your friend happy?”
“Yeah,” Erin said.
“See? Sit.”
“No.” I said, “I don’t want to, I’m leaving.” And I turned to go.
“You pay fifteen dollah?” Ivy asked.
“Uhh…no, I’m not going to pay you fifteen dollars.”
“You have to pay!” Ivy said, narrowing her eyes.
“Pay for what? She took off my manicure and ran away!”
“Sit down I make you happy!” Ivy said, raising her voice.
“I’m not happy, I want to leave!” I said, raising my voice back.
“THEN YOU PAY FIFTEEN DOLLAH!” Ivy shouted.
“No! Are you kidding? I didn’t get what I came here for, I’m not going to pay you for bad service!”
I looked at Erin who was like, “Don’t pay, that’s a load of crap.” And so I argued with Ivy for another ten minutes before Ivy cried, “SOMEONE HELP ME!” to the two other women getting manicures and pedicures in the shop, who blinked stupidly. “I think she’s saying you have to pay for the manicure?” One woman offered helpfully. And I also think it was helpful that I didn’t punch her in the face for being an idiot. I was so annoyed at this point that I wrote Ivy the fucking check for fifteen dollars and slammed it on the counter, turning on my heel to leave.
“Take it,” I said, furiously. “Enjoy it. But I’m NEVER COMING HERE AGAIN and I’m telling all my friends not to EVER COME HERE!”
Apparently them was fightin’ words to Ivy.
“GIVE ME YOUR LICENSE AND PHONE NUMBA!” Ivy shouted crazily, and so I laughed at her (because what is going on? Is she serious?) and said “No! I paid you and I’m leaving!” And Erin and I started walking towards the door.
“I CALL POLICE!” Ivy screamed.
“OKAY, YOU DO THAT!” I shouted at her from outside (the sun had gone down), and I got out my car keys and Erin and I got in my car. I started the car and I was like, “Should we just go?” and Erin was like “Yeah, HURRY!” Because Ivy was running towards my car with a phone, shouting. I started the car but Ivy leapt behind it before I could back out of the parking space and I watched her dialing the police in my rear-view mirror with her hand on her hip. Erin and I started cracking up because HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN? Why is this tiny pissed off Vietnamese woman standing behind my car?! I was really tempted to reverse and bowl her over but I didn’t want the cop to think I was irresponsible.
I rolled my window down and looking back at her, shouted, “WOULD YOU MOVE!?”
And she was like, “AHAHA I CALL POLICE! NOW YOU TELL PARENTS! WHAT YOU SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN!?”
And I was like, “YOU’RE CRAZY, YOU CRAZY, CRAZY- CRAZY!!!MOVE!”
I got out of my car and shouted, “GO AWAY!” but she didn’t.
“YOU HURT MY FEELINGS!” Ivy shouted, “I TRY TO MAKE YOU HAPPY YOU NO LET ME!”
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE CRAZY!” I cried.
“I HAVE BUIDINESS!” She screamed.
“THEN GO MANAGE IT!”
“NOW I HAVE TO FIAH HER BECAUSE SHE NO MAKE YOU HAPPY!” Ivy was pretty much foaming at the mouth.
“Don’t fire her! I gave you the money, now go away!” I cried.
Two seconds later a policeman pulled up and was like, “What’s going on?”
At this point in time Erin, who had remained fairly quiet through the whole incident burst out, “This is the stupidest- this is so immature- we don’t need a cop-“ And the policeman, who was very cute and white and young said, “Woah, woah, hold on.”
Ivy started screaming, “SHE NO PAY ME!” but luckily the policeman had acute perception and pointed to the check in Ivy’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked.
“She no pay me.” Ivy said again.
“What do you mean, you have a check in your hand, do you have an ID with you?” he turned to me.
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?” He asked me. And I calmly/bemusedly/confusedly/embarrassedly explained what happened. Ivy kept trying to interrupt me but when he asked her to explain herself she whined, “It too cold out here for me to tell,” which basically sums up what a crazy ass bitch she is.
I didn’t think I should have to pay her anything at all even though I had given her the fifteen dollars to pacify her, and I didn’t understand why I had to give her my phone number or my license number, but the policeman told me to so I did because I am not crazy. When I gave her my numbers she was like, “TANK YOU I HOPE YOU HAPPY.” But I couldn’t look at her because she is such a crazy bitch and her face makes me want to smack her. That sentence sounds trashy, bUt tAts dA wAy iT wUz. When I got home I fantasized of spray painting “DIE CRAZY BITCH” on her shop windows. I also felt good about bombing “L.A. Nails & Spa” with a homemade bomb that I could craft in a basement, if I had a basement. I compromised with myself by saying, “Dad! Go there tomorrow and tell her off!” And he promised he would, but later I was like, “No, don’t. That’s stupid.”
After spending two and a half hours at the nail salon I raged while I took a shower, thinking of all kinds of insults that I could have thrown at Ivy, like, “I WENT TO L.A. THIS SUMMER AND I GOT A MANICURE DONE THERE AND IT WAS WAY BETTER THAN THIS ONE, BITCH!” And I started laughing because I thought that was a pretty good insult for like, twelve seconds.
But I'm a little scared I might get AIDS or be killed by the nefarious Vietnamese Mafia.
Here I make a conjecture: God made me feverish to deter me from going to get my nails done and I ignored all signs.
Erin had printed out a list of places and their addresses but I am terrible with directions and so I decided to pull into the first shoddy-looking nail salon I saw. “L.A. Nails & Spa”.
We walked in to an all-but empty shop (a sign!). Two Vietnamese women, (ahh! A sign! Just kidding) sitting on a couch waiting for customers, greeted us. Erin and I sat uncomfortably while they scraped the surface of Erin’s nails off with that drill-sounding scraper, because if you want acrylic nails the first rule is DESTROY HEALTHY FINGERNAILS AT ALL COSTS. Knowledgeable about this I opted to get a French manicure on my real nails, because I was unaware that the women at L.A. Nails & Spa are CRAZY BITCHES.
Erin and I sat blinking while the women said things like this “Dunkeen Keen bon dat treetree klingclaengkloong dan” to each other which I could only assume makes sense in Vietnamese. Erin said, “If they were speaking English it would be really weird if they were talking to each other like this in front of us.” She said it as if our English conversation would sound just as nonsensical to them as the Vietnamese sounded to us, and I was nervous that they secretly spoke fluent English, so I disagreed. “That’s not true. When I’m at the dentist the dental assistants talk over my head to each other through their little mouth masks like I’m not even there. They’re always talking about baby showers, because one of them is always pregnant.”
At this the woman who was doing my nails (I think she was around 40) perked up. “Who baby showah?” She smiled. I tried to explain about the dental assistants to her, and also my observation that their names always seem to end in “i/ie/y” sounds. (Like Bobbi/Laurie/Jacky) The woman who was doing my nails just nodded and said “baby showah” again, so I guess she didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. I thought we were bonding because when she slid my hands into this weird gel and placed them in warm oven mitts (which confused me) I said, “eww!” and she giggled and said “Eww!! Heehee! Eww!” and I think I felt a little proud that I had taught her a new word, probably like John Rolfe when he taught Pocahontas the word “pneumonia, which you will die of here in England.”
Anyway, when she had finished my nails looked really bad. I’m pretty sure I could have given myself a better manicure while being tortured, and I didn’t find it unreasonable to ask her to re-do three of my fingernails where she had smeared the white tip into the clear part so it looked like marble. She looked up at me and I must have looked really unhappy with the job she’d done, because she got out the nail-polish remover and started taking off the whole thing. Bewildered, I cried, “Stop! What are you doing? It’s fine, it’s only those three that need to be fixed!” But the woman was like, “No, no. She do for you. She do for you.” Indicating the woman who was doing Erin's nails. But I was like, “Stop! Stop! Stop! What are you doing!?” and I tried to pull my hands away but she kept taking off all the polish, and when she was done she fled into the back room, looking like she was about to cry.
I looked at Erin, who said, “Uh…long day?” And I was like, “Must have been. Let’s just go”, because Erin had already paid and I was not about to sit for another hour and a half, plus I didn’t feel good and I was confused. Ivy, the woman who’d put on Erin’s acrylics, who also happened to be the manager, saw me picking up my things and said, “Nonono, sit down I make you happy.” And I said, “No, that’s okay, we’re going to go.”
Ivy said, “Nonono, I make you happy. Your friend happy?”
“Yeah,” Erin said.
“See? Sit.”
“No.” I said, “I don’t want to, I’m leaving.” And I turned to go.
“You pay fifteen dollah?” Ivy asked.
“Uhh…no, I’m not going to pay you fifteen dollars.”
“You have to pay!” Ivy said, narrowing her eyes.
“Pay for what? She took off my manicure and ran away!”
“Sit down I make you happy!” Ivy said, raising her voice.
“I’m not happy, I want to leave!” I said, raising my voice back.
“THEN YOU PAY FIFTEEN DOLLAH!” Ivy shouted.
“No! Are you kidding? I didn’t get what I came here for, I’m not going to pay you for bad service!”
I looked at Erin who was like, “Don’t pay, that’s a load of crap.” And so I argued with Ivy for another ten minutes before Ivy cried, “SOMEONE HELP ME!” to the two other women getting manicures and pedicures in the shop, who blinked stupidly. “I think she’s saying you have to pay for the manicure?” One woman offered helpfully. And I also think it was helpful that I didn’t punch her in the face for being an idiot. I was so annoyed at this point that I wrote Ivy the fucking check for fifteen dollars and slammed it on the counter, turning on my heel to leave.
“Take it,” I said, furiously. “Enjoy it. But I’m NEVER COMING HERE AGAIN and I’m telling all my friends not to EVER COME HERE!”
Apparently them was fightin’ words to Ivy.
“GIVE ME YOUR LICENSE AND PHONE NUMBA!” Ivy shouted crazily, and so I laughed at her (because what is going on? Is she serious?) and said “No! I paid you and I’m leaving!” And Erin and I started walking towards the door.
“I CALL POLICE!” Ivy screamed.
“OKAY, YOU DO THAT!” I shouted at her from outside (the sun had gone down), and I got out my car keys and Erin and I got in my car. I started the car and I was like, “Should we just go?” and Erin was like “Yeah, HURRY!” Because Ivy was running towards my car with a phone, shouting. I started the car but Ivy leapt behind it before I could back out of the parking space and I watched her dialing the police in my rear-view mirror with her hand on her hip. Erin and I started cracking up because HOW THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN? Why is this tiny pissed off Vietnamese woman standing behind my car?! I was really tempted to reverse and bowl her over but I didn’t want the cop to think I was irresponsible.
I rolled my window down and looking back at her, shouted, “WOULD YOU MOVE!?”
And she was like, “AHAHA I CALL POLICE! NOW YOU TELL PARENTS! WHAT YOU SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN!?”
And I was like, “YOU’RE CRAZY, YOU CRAZY, CRAZY- CRAZY!!!MOVE!”
I got out of my car and shouted, “GO AWAY!” but she didn’t.
“YOU HURT MY FEELINGS!” Ivy shouted, “I TRY TO MAKE YOU HAPPY YOU NO LET ME!”
“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE CRAZY!” I cried.
“I HAVE BUIDINESS!” She screamed.
“THEN GO MANAGE IT!”
“NOW I HAVE TO FIAH HER BECAUSE SHE NO MAKE YOU HAPPY!” Ivy was pretty much foaming at the mouth.
“Don’t fire her! I gave you the money, now go away!” I cried.
Two seconds later a policeman pulled up and was like, “What’s going on?”
At this point in time Erin, who had remained fairly quiet through the whole incident burst out, “This is the stupidest- this is so immature- we don’t need a cop-“ And the policeman, who was very cute and white and young said, “Woah, woah, hold on.”
Ivy started screaming, “SHE NO PAY ME!” but luckily the policeman had acute perception and pointed to the check in Ivy’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked.
“She no pay me.” Ivy said again.
“What do you mean, you have a check in your hand, do you have an ID with you?” he turned to me.
“Yes.”
“What’s going on?” He asked me. And I calmly/bemusedly/confusedly/embarrassedly explained what happened. Ivy kept trying to interrupt me but when he asked her to explain herself she whined, “It too cold out here for me to tell,” which basically sums up what a crazy ass bitch she is.
I didn’t think I should have to pay her anything at all even though I had given her the fifteen dollars to pacify her, and I didn’t understand why I had to give her my phone number or my license number, but the policeman told me to so I did because I am not crazy. When I gave her my numbers she was like, “TANK YOU I HOPE YOU HAPPY.” But I couldn’t look at her because she is such a crazy bitch and her face makes me want to smack her. That sentence sounds trashy, bUt tAts dA wAy iT wUz. When I got home I fantasized of spray painting “DIE CRAZY BITCH” on her shop windows. I also felt good about bombing “L.A. Nails & Spa” with a homemade bomb that I could craft in a basement, if I had a basement. I compromised with myself by saying, “Dad! Go there tomorrow and tell her off!” And he promised he would, but later I was like, “No, don’t. That’s stupid.”
After spending two and a half hours at the nail salon I raged while I took a shower, thinking of all kinds of insults that I could have thrown at Ivy, like, “I WENT TO L.A. THIS SUMMER AND I GOT A MANICURE DONE THERE AND IT WAS WAY BETTER THAN THIS ONE, BITCH!” And I started laughing because I thought that was a pretty good insult for like, twelve seconds.
But I'm a little scared I might get AIDS or be killed by the nefarious Vietnamese Mafia.