We got in the car and headed over to our favorite, most reliable salon, where the instruments are clean, the prices can’t be beat, and there’s always some funny Asian soap opera playing on the tiny TV stationed at the back of the salon where the unoccupied estheticians hang out and gossip (we can only assume).

When we walked in, the doorbell chimed and we chimed in, “Manicure, pedicure.” We weren’t surprised that a man led us to a spa chair in the back. A gentleman has always played host at this salon. But we were surprised when he brought over the nail kit, sat down, and began filing.

Since we attended one of those God-awful hyper-liberal women’s colleges, we are, of course, full believers in equal opportunity employment. So, we figured, what the hell? Let’s just relax and see how it goes. And it was going fine until he started polishing our nails, and our fingers grazed the back of his hairy hand, almost smearing the polish. We began wondering if our Chanel Madness was going to waste.

In the end, it turned out to be a good manicure. (A lady did our pedicure.) We have to admit that even though we were a little skeeved out by the hand hair and lack of some salon niceties (e.g. the use of pillows to support raised appendages), he did a pretty nice job and was quite pleasant. Other than suggesting he wax or shave his hands, our only other feedback would be, and this is to all men, NEVER HANDLE OUR PURSES WITHOUT ASKING FIRST.

By Deborah