Reviewed by: Valerie - 6 weeks ago ★★★✩✩
This is the new nail shop on the east side of town next to the Ross. Where the exotic fish store used to be. Pretty good color selection and when you put your fingers under their UV lamps you can time travel back to when you were a little girl before the world broke you.
They don’t advertise the time travel thing. Liability reasons and whatnot. But it happened.
Full disclosure, I’m not a big nail salon person. I’m not really a big self-care person. But now that I’m approaching 40 I’m starting to feel my age, and it feels like all the cells that spent the last twenty years keeping me attractive in the desperate hope of procreation have quit at the same time, and almost overnight I’ve begun morphing into the exact body shape of my mother.
So now no matter what I eat or how much I exercise, there seems to be no going back. Not unrelated, I read recently that if a giant container ship is traveling at sea and sees an immovable obstacle in its path, even if that object is a mile away, there is no point in the ship trying to reverse course. The only thing they can do is turn the rudder and pray they miss.
Well lately I’ve felt like a container ship. Top heavy, covered in crap made in China, and steaming full speed ahead toward an island of middle-aged misery.
I guess that’s why I gave Happy Nail a try.
For the price of $37—tip optional—I could at least transform my fingers. I could admire them in the morning as I drive to my cashier job at Wells Fargo and again at night as I lie in bed reading World War II romance novels. They would be a sign of life to both me and the world at large that Valerie Torres has mostly given up… but not entirely.
Happy Nail has six stations. The decor is off putting. The beige linoleum floors blend almost imperceptibly into beige walls. It’s such a perfect color match you lose a noticeable amount of spatial awareness upon entering and I had to steady myself at the front counter or I might have fallen into a potted plant.
The place is run by an attractive Vietnamese woman in her 50s and I tell her that I just want gels. “Nothing fancy.” At which point she looks me up and down with a lot of judgement and says, “You went out your house like this?”
In her defense, I am wearing sweatpants and there is a medium-sized stain on the upper thigh from some chocolate ice cream that spilled on them a few nights earlier. But the stain is not lingering out of laziness—I know the stain is there—I just intentionally try not to wash my sweatpants too often because they’re so perfectly soft and I know that with every cycle they will only grow rougher and rougher until the joy of putting on sweats at five-fifteen is gone and all that’s left is the self-loathing.
“Yes I went out of the house like this,” I answer. “But this is my only stop.”
“You need Happy Nail Special,” she concludes.
“No, nothing special. But thank you.”
“Happy Nail Special is free for first timer.” Before I can wave her off, she turns to the nail tech down at the fifth station. “Meena! Happy Nail Special for sad sweatpant lady.”
Sad sweatpant lady?
Is that really my identity? I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection as the front door swings closed.
Oh goodness.
I am.
I am sad sweatpant lady.
I take my seat opposite Meena and she gets to work.
“You have fat fingers,” she says calmly as she applies bonder.
I’m quickly seeing that Happy Nail is built on a culture of shame. But maybe my fingers are fat. Have I been so focused on other parts of me getting fat that I ignored my fingers? Were there specific finger exercises I should have been doing this whole time? I feel like Kelly Clarkson would have covered this topic by now and she hasn’t.
“BASE COAT ON. THIRTY SECONDS,” Meena barks. She points toward the UV lamp at her station, wide enough to fit both hands at once. And in they go.
Warning: This is where it gets weird.
Everything in Happy Nail immediately goes black. The only light that remains is the purple glow on my hands, with Meena’s UV lamp nowhere to be seen. And then I realize my hands themselves are completely detached from my body and in fact I am staring back down at them from a distance. (FYI, my fingers don’t look fat at all. Part of why I’m only giving Happy Nail 3 stars.)
Just as I’m starting to panic and wonder what toxic things Happy Nail is pumping out of the vents, light rushes back and there standing before me… is me. But not Valerie at 39. Valerie at 10. Backstage at my elementary school auditorium and dressed like Scary Spice. My heavily jewelried ten-year-old hands are stretched out flat and hovering slightly above Elisa Greenwald’s.
We are playing Hot Hands.
Elisa tries to get me to jump by twitching her hands underneath mine but I don’t flinch. When she finally comes over the top and tries to slap me—
“OKAY, BASE COAT DONE.”
Just like that, I am back at station five. (Friendly suggestion: If Happy Nail is going to keep offering this service, they should think about how to smooth out these time jumps.)
Meena is already applying the polish and naturally I am in a fairly large state of shock.
“I think I just traveled back 30 years to my elementary school talent show.”
“Okay yeah fun,” she says, head down and disinterested.
(Customer Note: If you can request someone besides Meena when you time travel to your childhood, probably worth it.)
While she finishes my right hand and quickly moves to my left, I reflect on that ten-year-old girl. She was clearly me… and yet completely unrecognizable. Full of life. Fearless. Fun.
“OKAY, FIRST COAT DONE. THIRTY SECONDS.”
On goes the lamp and whoosh — Total blackout. Purple light. Then right back to 1996. (This is when I accept this is what makes the Happy Nail Special “special” and I’m not just having a perimenopause hot flash-slash-mental breakdown.)
Ten-year-old Valerie is now onstage. Hands on her hips. The purple light is now a spotlight. And the Spice Girls’ mega hit “Wannabe” kicks in at full volume.
In an instant, I remember the significance of this night. I’m about to sing in front of the entire school. And it’s going to be terrible.
Yo I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want. So tell me what you want, what you really really want… I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want. So tell me what you want, what you really, really want. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah.
I watch as I sing my heart out. As I work the stage. As I play to the crowd. As I attempt Scary Spice dance moves I’d spent weeks in my room trying to perfect.
But here’s the thing.
To my total surprise…
I’m actually pretty good.
No. I’m not pretty good. I’m really good!
And my ten-year-old face shows it. Sensing the crowd’s love. Owning the moment. Soaking up every last—
“OKAY, FIRST COAT DONE.”
Stupid Meena. I was back at station five again. “I think I need a little more time with this one—” I say and then I try to put my hands back under the lamp. Meena snatches it off the table before I can get there.
“FIRST COAT DONE! Too much UV you get hand cancer!”
This leads to a brief scuffle. The owner rushes over and says “no fighting at Happy Nail” and also uses the “hand cancer” argument so I guess I’m not the first customer who gets the Happy Nail Special and then kinda flips out. But still, a lot of these issues could be fixed with some employee sensitivity training. Again, 3 stars.
Meena applies the second coat while I chew on what I just saw. Why was I convinced I had bombed? And what happened to that ten-year-old girl who knew she hadn’t? A girl who lived life for the pure joy of it. Who signed up for a school talent show before she’d even decided what song she was going to sing.
That girl is long gone. And I don’t know why.
“SECOND COAT. THIRTY SECONDS.”
I plunge my hands back under the lamp.
It’s after the talent show. I’m in the auditorium with my parents and my grandpa. He gives me a bouquet of flowers and tells me I’m the most graceful dancer he’s ever seen. I give him a kiss and leave behind some glitter on his cheek.
My mom reminds me I left my bag backstage where I find Elisa Greenwald and the rest of the crew cleaning up.
“See ya Monday,” I tell her.
I grab my bag and am almost gone when Elisa calls out to me. “You looked ridiculous, by the way.”
My ten-year-old smile fades. My shoulders drop. With one cruel comment, every confident, joyful part of ten-year-old me shrivels and dies.
“OKAY, POLISH DONE. NOW CLEAR COAT!”
I don’t look at Meena.
I’m shattered all over again. Destroyed for a second time by a memory I’d long ago buried.
This is when I explain to Meena that I don’t want to do the lamp again. She says I have to or the clear coat won’t set. I tell her I don’t care about the clear coat. Or even the nails. I’d rather she just peel the gels off and let me go. But Meena yells something in Vietnamese to the owner and she yells something back and all the fight I have has been beaten out of me and—
“CLEAR COAT, THIRTY SECONDS!”
I brace myself. Then I drop in my hands one last time.
Blackout.
Purple glow...
And ten-year-old me is in the backseat of the car with my grandpa. I’m looking out the window. Silent. Hiding my tears. My mom asks me questions and I give one-word answers. My dad tries to change the mood by putting in my Spice Girls CD. When I hear “Wannabe,” I tell him I don’t want to listen to it anymore. “I just want to go home,” I say.
“OKAY ALL DONE!” Meena declares with a satisfied grin.
She wipes down my nails with cotton balls and cleans up her station. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that I’m weeping. She acts as if my behavior is totally normal. And I don’t know. Maybe it is. Perhaps what makes the Happy Nail Special “special” is that it leaves you completely wrecked.
On the drive home I can’t even see my pink-orange fingers glowing on the steering wheel. All I can see are the bad decisions I’ve made since Elisa Greenwald called me ridiculous. The risks I didn’t take. The hard things I never tried. The heartaches I protected myself from in exchange for never being vulnerable.
I detour to Smart & Final for more chocolate ice cream. I don’t feel like waiting till I get to my couch to eat it so I buy a 4-pack of metal spoons from the kitchen goods aisle.
And then I head home, eating ice cream out of a tub wedged between my sweatpant-covered thighs. It melts faster than I can eat it. Some chocolate dribbles on the steering wheel and when I use my spoon to scrape it off, I don’t notice the cars in front of me have come to a stop.
I hit the brakes but it’s too late.
As I smash the Lexus in front of me, my Toyota accordions just like cars in all the safety videos except instead of the crash test dummy hitting the air bag it’s my chocolate-covered face and ice cream, splattering a wave of brown across the dashboard and windshield. The soccer mom in front of me gasps, thinking it’s blood until I wave and insist I’m fine.
It’s just me.
Sad sweatpant lady.
Now with a much larger stain on my pants. And shirt. And a little in my hair.
Half an hour later and I’m sitting on the curb, watching as my car is loaded onto a flatbed. The tow truck driver asks if I want a ride home but I don’t. If I say yes and then he asks me how my day’s been I will probably open the door of his truck and send myself careening onto the moving black pavement below. “I’ll just walk,” I say.
And so I slog home. I thought it was a mile but when I get my bearings I realize it’s more like three. Two miles in, what’s left of the ice cream (yes, I’m still carrying it) has turned to liquid and sloshes around with every lumbering step. I pass a homeless woman who’s made a shelter out of palm fronds and flattened diaper boxes and I swear she looks at me with pity.
I hate you, Elisa Greenwald. I hate you for what you said to me that night. For seeing an opportunity to tear me down and taking it. And I hate myself for believing it. I was not ridiculous! I was fun! I was free! And now…
…now I am ridiculous.
I spot a trash can and toss my ice cream. Ready to be done with my painful journey to Happy Nail when, behind me, I hear a warm voice:
“Are you here for the class?” she asks.
I turn around. There’s a lovely woman about my age, also in sweats. Her curly brown hair is pulled up in a purple scrunchie. Her humble Nalgene bottle sweats with fresh ice water. Above her, hanging over the entrance of a newly painted storefront, is a banner:
Happy Feet Dance Studio. GRAND OPENING!
“First one’s free,” the woman says with a smile.
“Oh… I don’t know…” I tell her.
She holds out her hand. Her gels sparkle in the light. “Come on,” she says. “You’ll have fun.”
She said it with such assurance. Like she knew it was true. Not true for everyone but for me specifically.
And so I tiptoe in behind her. I take the last spot. In the corner. Close to the exit. She welcomes the group and connects her phone to the speakers. “Let’s warm up with a classic,” she says. And out it blasts:
Yo I’ll tell you what I want, what I really really want!
So tell me what you want, what you really really want…
I'll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.
So tell me what you want, what you really, really want.
I wanna, I wanna, I wanna, I wanna,
I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah.
My brain tries to interrupt the moment with fear and doubt. But I ignore it. I choose instead to let my arms and legs do what they once knew how to do so naturally. Turning. Stomping. Jumping. Kicking.
If you want my future, forget my past. If you wanna get with me, better make it fast! Now don't go wasting my precious time… Get your act together we could be just fine.
I don’t think about the stains on my clothes. I forget the lies I once believed. I watch myself in the mirror. And all I can see is hope.