Friday, Sept. 05, 2003 - 2:01 p.m.

12:43 p.m. As I shared, with my clinical psychotherapist, a particularly intense, deeply personal, repressed internal conflict, resulting in unconscious impulses with underlying motives to divide my psyche into the id, ego and superego, my eyes wondered across my lap to my tanned and muscular forearm then to my strong hand then continuing down my long and thick fingers to their tips. Internal self-examination quickly became external narcissism as I gasped at the unsightly unkempt unflattering finger nails topping what I was sure was once a stunningly handsome hand.

12:49 p.m. While my savior/therapist gave insight, "It�s very important to understand � blah blah blah� that in your childhood� yada yada yada�the mother�quack quack�" I sat stunned on his plush leather couch, mouth agape, unable to talk, unable to utter a single sound, only occasionally able to suck in enough air to make tiny little wheezing noises. I sat stunned as I surveyed the fingernails of a coal miner with cuticles in critical need of attention.

12:55 p.m. I felt exposed and embarrassment as the doctor stared at my hands as I wrote out a check for $235 (one hundred dollar base fee plus fifty for displaying irregular malady plus an eighty-five dollar "breakthrough" surcharge...whatever) and decided to immediately get a manicure.

1:08 p.m. Walking down 3rd Street, between Sweetzer Ave. and Crescent Heights Blvd., I realized I have my pick of third world nail salons in which to choose from. As I strolled by Classy Nails I wondered if mine appeared to blue collar to be taken seriously. Pink Nails seemed likely to be my kind of place but once again dismiss it reasoning the last thing I needed in my current emotional state was to be in an establishment filled with judgmental and unforgiving gay manicurists although I did tuck the location away in the back of my mind should I want to come back later for a post-mani. A-1 Nails, no. Perfect Nails, don�t think so. Hands Across the Table, not a chance. Du Phoug Hue�s, a�no.

1:16 p.m. Finally, near exhaustion having walked nearly two blocks I settle for the nondescript non-threatening Happy Nails.

1:17 p.m. As I enter the storefront through a bared security gate followed by a screen door followed by a heavy single paned glass door I�m announced by a the twinkling of a tiny bell. At first I thought the bell was attached to the glass door but in fact it was attached to a little Korean women sitting atop an extremely tall stool in front of a makeshift cigar box cash register. From her vantage point she monitored the six small dark Asian women sitting in a row of nail stations all busily filing or grinding or filling or lengthening or painting nails, all donning a SARS mask. Some of the gals customized their masks with nail polish flowers or inscribed them with cute sayings like, "If you can read this you too close" and "Ask me about my mani pedi special. Now!"

1:18 p.m. Feared I had made a grave error in perception I turned to leave when the little woman rang the bell once again and before my hand could reach the door handle an even littler women took me by my elbow and escorted me to a creepy but available station in the rear of the shop.

1:20 p.m. Minutes later I was drinking green tea and soaking my paws in ceramic bowls filled with a whitish slime. When my manicurist, a cantankerous troll of a woman with a badly permed mop top of tightly kinked black hair wearing a colorful loose fitting flowered burlap frock, finished wiping down all her utensils with a paper towel moistened from a bottle labeled, "4 killing of germ bacteria fungus" I introduced myself, "Hi, I�m Garloo." She replied, "Garroo not good name for you." "Thanks," I said then asked, "What�s your name." With a surly tone associated with DMV employees she responded, "Happy." "Right back at ya." I said. She crowed, "What?" I replied, "So you own this place." To which she came back with, "So what."

continued...

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