The Secret of Store-Front Nail Salons

I don't have a lot of time to write, so allow me to quickly pen a brief politically incorrect post about Vietnamese nail salon technicians. I think they're a form of organized crime.

Being the cheap frugal woman that I am, I prefer not to splurge on manicures, pedicures, or waxing at high-end, a.k.a. expensive, beauty salons. Hell, my last haircut was a Hair Cuttery splurge. Where other women start to improve their beauty routines with age, I'm sliding backward. Anyway, for those who aren't "in the know," these Vietnamese-owned and operated nail salons are on every street corner of every town in America and they charge half of what the fancy salons charge for the same services. And they don't just offer every nail technique known to man, or in this case, woman, most of them also provide waxing and even neck, hand. and foot massages. And they're really good at all of the above.

And that's where they get ya.

Yesterday I hit one of these storefront oases knowing what I wanted and what I needed. Or so I thought. I walked through the door and one of the women looked up from the pedicure she was giving to ask me in her broken English, "What you need?" I gestured and replied in stilted, awkward English as if that would somehow make clear what I was there for. As if they don't know English perfectly well and only speak their native language so they can make fun of you with their co-workers. I asked for a manicure and lip and eyebrow wax. She suggested a neck massage. I've been tense. I said "Yes, for just five minutes". (They charge by the minute.) She started with the best neck massage I've ever had. When the timer went off, I asked for five minutes more. That's how they get ya.

And then my manicure began. Little room for error there, unless of course their instruments aren't sanitized, but that's another post. When my nearly perfect neck massage came to an end, the waxologist (I don't believe that's an official term) moved in. She asked if I also wanted my chin waxed. Um, no. I think I'd know if I had hair on my chinny, chin, chin. She started on my upper lip. And then suggested my chin again. I asked her if I needed it. She said yes. At this point, you're stuck. You're head is tilted back without a mirror in sight. You don't think you need a chin wax, but you don't want to find out later that you were wrong. Women with hairy chins are straight out of scary fairytales. You don't want to be that character. You give the okay for the damn chin wax. And then she suggests the sides of your face. As in your "side burns." She doesn't really ask, just goes ahead and layers on the hot wax. As she rips off the cloth, you're tempted to ask to see the proof of this wolf (wo)man condition you apparently have. But you're sure every other woman in the salon is is staring with pity and wonder at the woman who just received a total face wax so you keep your mouth shut. And then there's that language barrier my ass that keeps you from trying to discuss this matter or ask how much all this freakin' wax is going to cost you. I guess I should just be thankful she didn't ask me to drop my drawers.

The crafty waxologist tells you what you owe and you wonder how the hell it added up to that. But the price list is way up by the front door and you don't want to get up and go look at it like some suspicious, anti-Vietnamese cheap skate, so you pay the damn bill. And then you stick your nails under the dryer and you stew about it. And you wonder how it is you can shut down a used car salesman when he tries to sell you the bells and whistles, but you can't hold your own against a store front nail technician.

As you're driving home it occurs to you that if you'd have gone to the high-end salon you would paid half as much because you'd have only received the services you actually requested, not those they scared you in to. And then you start to break out in hives from an apparent allergic reaction to what was probably cheap and inferior wax.

And that's how they got me.