A Perfect 10

I love manicures.  They are my not-so-secret indulgence.  And I have the world’s greatest manicurist.

Yes, yes, I know that every gal thinks that hers is the best.  But mine, darling Nguyen, (pronounced “Win”) actually is.

Nguyen is Vietnamese.  She is tiny, delicate, very soft-spoken and sweet.  And she has the gentle touch of a butterfly as she goes about her business making my hands look swell.  I never even feel her caressing touch.

And yet she is a stern perfectionist when it comes to her nail art.  I watch as she carefully files or as she gives the tiniest of frowns when she detects a polish imperfection not visible to my naked eye.

Nguyen cares about her work.  Her standards are strict and when she does say,”All done,” I leave the salon feeling no less than a beautifully-sculpted piece of precious Bonsai art.

And it is precisely because Nguyen cares so much that I leave all mani decisions in her clever hands. True, every once in awhile, I’ll require a certain color, but usually Opi’s Big Apple Red is my solid, go-to choice.  (This summer I love “Gossip Girl” hot pink, too.)

Every now and again, however, I do like to mix it up.  To show my support for the Denver Broncos in this year’s Superbowl, I sported a very jaunty orange.

A lot of good that did, btw.  The Broncos got creamed.  (Bruno Mars was terrific at half-time, though.)

But for the most part, I leave color selection up to Nguyen.  She’s always excited to try out new ones, and I’m happy to (hand) model them for her.

I have fun with her choices.  I never thought I’d sport sea foam green fingernails but it’s cool and I feel so with it.

But just to douse me in a bucket of cold, hard water reality, I found out just exactly how un-happening I really am.

A pretty young girl -mid twenties I should say- sat down next to me at last week’s appointment.  And I overheard her to say to her manicurist, “Party nail, please.”

Her manicurist replied, “Okay.  Ring finger?”

“Yes,” was the answer.

This cryptic conversation intrigued me.  And I glanced over just in time to see her manicurist pull out two bottles of polish.

Now I was really fascinated.  I had a glimmer of an idea about what was going on next door, but I had never heard the expression “party nail.”

“Excuse me but I couldn’t help overhearing.  What is a ‘party nail?'” I asked.

The girl smiled at me- and my ignorance.

“It’s when you decorate one finger differently than the others.  It’s fun.”

I felt as old as Methuselah.  Here was cool nail art, and I had never even heard of it.

“That does sound fun.  May I see the finished product?” I asked.

“Sure,” she smiled.  “I’ll show you when I’m done.”

Wow! Party nail?  How long had this phenomenon been going on?

Miami Vice Sidebar:  Once upon a time, I had heard of a “coke nail.”  In the early seventies, I had spent one winter in decadent Miami Beach. This was not my grandmother’s Miami Beach of the kitschy Deauville and Eden Roc Hotels.  No, this was New Age Miami.  All pink champagne and pink crystal rock cocaine.

Done quite openly at clubs and restaurants.

(And no, I didn’t do the coke.  The only coke I do is Diet Coke.)

But this was a wild and crazy group, trust me.  One of the guys had fathered an out-of-wedlock baby right before I got down there.  Back in those days, this was a very big disgrace for all concerned.  Today this same baby is a very successful Hollywood movie director.   O tempora O mores.

Back in Chicago 2014…

When my neighbor’s mani was finished, she leaned over and showed me.

There it was- nine of her nails purple, and her ring finger nail all sparkly with twinkly silver polish.

It looked festive and celebratory.  Just like it was supposed to.  And I thought about it.

For one second.

Nah, I’m just too old to go to this party.

But maybe powder blue next time.

And guys, check out the manicure on this babe.  Just a little reward for a trip to the nail salon.

Party on, people.