Game of Thrones

Nail Salon Edition

Now and then, the Short JG gets fed up with self-inflicted botched pedicures, and turns the task over to a higher power. Now and then, I must sit upon a throne at the nail salon and nod to the commoners.  On my last outing to Gorgeous Gorgeous You, I witnessed quite the uprising. A nice couple I recognized but couldn't place (this happens a lot) felt strongly that Gorgeous Gorgeous You had tricked their daughter. They wanted an apology, not to mention, a refund. While they pointed fingers at the manager, I slunk down in my throne, reluctant to get pulled into this drama. All I wanted to do was sit there, luxuriating like a queen. Selfish, selfish me. Gorgeous Gorgeous You, according to the nice people I was now hiding from, had charged extra for a flower nail design. Their daughter thought the flower art came with the manicure, but alas, like so many things in life, the flower cost extra.

There's no such thing as a free flower.

The manager stared stonily, as the nice couple said some unnice things. They would tell everyone they know not to step foot in Gorgeous Gorgeous You. I'm sure they would've told me the same thing, if they'd noticed me, cowering regally behind my magazine. But they were too busy threatening to call the Better Business Bureau.  A better SJG would've marched out, dripping sudsy water, in support. I could see how such a bait-and-switch happened. In the course of my mani-pedi, the nail ladies offered me a cuticle treatment, a neck and shoulder message, and a personality transformation via seductive whispers, never hinting at the extra cost. Thanks to the nice couple's rant, I didn't bite. But I did stay put. I wanted my toes to look pretty in NYC. It rained the whole time I was there and my toes never came out to play. I've learned my karmic lesson. Next time I witness injustice at the nail salon, I will rise up in support, I will throw tiny bottles of Radical Red and Manic Mauve. Gorgeous Gorgeous You has seen the last of moi. I'm taking my toes down the street to What Up, Bitch, where I belong.