They do exist, apparently. A few weeks back, my friend Maricela and I decided to get a pedicures after work. We’re hard working girls and toes are just really hard to paint while doing the yoga required to paint them.
She called around to get some price quotes and found a spot with a ten dollar pedicure. You would think this would have raised the first red flag, but with the current state of affairs, there are deals to be had. We also speculated it was a misquote as the person who answered the phone was not a native English speaker.
The location should probably have tipped us off too, as El Segundo is fancy, but a few miles in any direction is, shall we say, South Central. By the time we passed LAX, the sun had set and the surrounding area was dimly lit. It didn’t look amazing (neon signs flickering Girls, Girls, Girls!) but it didn’t look destitute either.
I pulled into a parking spot, my lights illuminating a person slumped over in a hospital wheelchair. Stop. Back-up. Re-park.
As I exited the car, a woman comes out of literally what seems to be the underside of my car with a fist full of long Bo Derek braids for me. We rushed to the door. It’s a security screen door but it doesn’t open. A woman shouts “YOU WANT NAIL?” We nod. Buzz! The door opened.
This is when we realize we’re in the less gentrified Inglewood. Neither of us will admit it to each other that it’s super gross and we wanted to leave, so we carry on as normal. We are seated on rickety, stained chairs that have seen better days and our eyes began watering from the fumes of acetate and other chemicals I don’t think I’ve smelled in a salon since I was a young child. A cloud of flies is circling us and a mosquito the size of a dinner plate is looming on the adjacent wall.
We wait for what feels like hours, but it’s actually more like 25 minutes. It’s pretty clear that some of the technicians are actually working on the nails of other technicians. At this point, if we left, we might not be able to hit up another insectless parlor.
Communicating under our breath, we decided to book it. Maricela walked to the door, turned the knob and paused as 3 technicians dropped everything and began shouting. I’m not understanding why Maricela isn’t opening the door. I smiled kindly and insisted “thank you so much, but we must leave. It’s getting late and we must go!”
And this is when I noticed Maricela is jiggling the knob like her life depends on it. The technicians are still yelling (yelling!) various promises to serve us. And it dawns on me: we’re locked in. They have trapped us. They have no intention of letting us out until they’ve dipped us in toxic waste and get some cash. It makes sense – in this part of town, you probably do have to trap clients and release them only when they’ve paid up – but also, it’s really scary!
For 3 excruciating minutes we beg to be buzzed out in the wild. Finally, a technician presses the secret button. Buzz! I peeled out of the parking lot on 2 wheels and we raced to a better salon where a man is pacing inside talking on his cellphone. The salon is empty but kind of looks open.
Suddenly he noticed us and drew his finger across his throat. You know, the universal sign for I am going to kill you. We decided that this salon is closed.
In other words, I painted my own toes as penance for my vanity.
2 Comments
nice post. thanks.
just came across this.. great entry!