After work in Kuta, Bali, there really isn’t much to do except to….spend money.
And so, at 27 years of age, this girl’s just had the first manicure of her life.
And, shall I say, it will also be her last.
It must’ve been one of the most unpleasant things I’ve had to go through. I would much rather endure the London Dungeons again than have another manicure. Probably.
Before that, I’ve always imagined having a manicure to be some sort of a luxury. You know, you lie back on a big comfy chair, have your little fingers washed, cleansed, mosturized, polished and all that while you drift in and out of a deep dream-like state of chowing down grilled prawns and chilli crabs.
Instead, I felt like I was being poked and jabbed at, and thought the lady was going to file the tips of my fingers off. Not the mention the creepy feeling of having a stranger touch, tug at, and hold your hands. *shudder*
I thought I would leave my session all relaxed and refreshed. But no, I felt nothing but relief.
After the lady went away (but not without first pestering me with “You want polish?! Polish look good on you!” “You want massage?” “You want cream bath?” Cream bath?!), I stared at my nails…they look no different from before I sat down, they feel no better than me clipping my own nails, and I feel like I just got cheated.
For the same amount of money, I could’ve gotten myself a plate of chicken satay and a bottle of Bintang. Mmmmm….now THAT’s more like it.