This is a guest blog by my friend Beth as written by her.
Heaven knows that I am one of the least qualified people to make political commentary. However, of one thing I am quite sure is that if a woman had been solely in charge of writing the United Nations Convention Against Torture, there would not have been any need for debating over the use of controversial torture techniques. We women would simply go with the old standbys that we have been putting ourselves through for years – leg waxing, depilatories, laser treatments, Botox, threading, etc. The amount of beautifying torments we ladies put ourselves through is endless, and now that I am living in Brazil, I have another one to add to the list – the manicure. Surprised? I bet, but let me explain...
It all starts out like you would expect. You walk in, choose your nail color and a good gossip magazine, and take a seat in a very comfy chair. That is where the similarities end. The first sign that things are going to be different with this manicure is that the manicurist starts removing your polish with pure acetone. Yes, the same stuff we all gave up using in the early 1980s because of the scary side effects we were warned about with inhalation and absorption and many other things that I cannot remember. Not to mention the fact that it stings like the devil. Anyway, that truly becomes the least of your worries, once she starts with the cuticles. (By the way, there does seem to be a national obsession with cuticle removal. My son even came home from school the other day telling me that I needed to trim his. But I digress...)
This is the part they pay extra close attention to here in Brazil. The manicurist proceeds to take a razor-sharp set of cuticle trimmers and begins to painstakingly trim away those excess pieces of dead flesh that plague your nails after going for two whole weeks with no professional attention. She will not move on to the next finger until the one she is currently working on has had every last trace of skin removed. Your poor finger is pink to the point of bleeding and looks smoother than a newborn’s butt by the time she is done with it. And the nail bed has been dug in so deeply that you have a sneaking suspicion the manicurist might be digging for gold rather than trimming out dead skin. And if you start to pull your hand away in an act of self-preservation, she just gives you a snide grin and tells you how tense you are and that you really must loosen up and relax.
Relax – OK – did I mention that this is simultaneously going on with your toes? The only good thing is that the pain from your hands is sporadically diverted by the pain from your feet. They double team you so you are unable to react quickly with defensive maneuvers. Obviously, they have thoroughly studied manicure torture techniques. And when you start to bleed (notice I say “when”, and not “if”), they pull out a small jar of powder that instantly stops the blood so that they can continue on with their dead-skin vendetta. Last time I went, the manicurist actually struck blood three times, and instead of apologizing profusely, as I would expect, she just looked at me and said, “Wow. You’re very sensitive, aren’t you?” Right.
When she finally finishes with the sharp metal cuticle clippers, it is finally time for some nice, soothing lotion. Finally you can enjoy this manicure, right? Wrong. Out comes the acetone again, which removes the lotion from your nails and your throbbing (but incredibly smooth) cuticles to prepare for the polish.
The polishing stage is also quite different from what I am accustomed. Brazilians like to slather the nail polish all over the place – even getting some on the nails once in a while. Then comes what I like to consider “Stage 2” of the Brazilian manicure torture. The manicurist then produces a sharp, pointy little stick – made out of wood if you are lucky; metal if she is particularly sadistic. And what is this stick for? It’s to jam down into your freshly trimmed and very tender nail beds and dig out the nail polish that they have slapped on everywhere. I am almost sure that the goal is to see if they can actually get the nail color to enter into your blood stream. This continues on for two coats of color and a coat of clear. Yes, they jam the stick on every nail, after every coat – three vicious times per nail. At this point sweat beads are forming on your forehead as you try and prepare yourself for any impending agony-filled procedures.
As a final rite of passage, the last stage of the manicure consists of the manicurist taking that same stick and covering it with cotton, and – oh, yes – more acetone, in order to get off all the polish she has carelessly strewn across your nails and nail beds. This is a touchy time. Better not to breathe or make any sudden movements, because if she accidentally touches the freshly polished nail with the stick, out comes the acetone and it is back to Stage 2 for you.
After my first Brazilian manicure, I walked out of the salon feeling like I had entered some parallel universe, swearing that if I could only get out of there with all of my appendages that I would never be back. My hands and feet throbbed for the first two days after the “treatment” and every time I went to wash my hands in hot water my nail beds would swell up and turn beet red. Unfortunately, in this case, as in the case of all the feminine torture treatments and, for that matter, international politics, the end justifies the means. At the end of the day, Brazilians do the longest lasting and best manicures I’ve ever had done. I’m a convert.
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