Don't laugh, it's paid for.

When I got a haircut last week, two other people had to do the drying. Apparently, my stylist (and I use the terms "my" and "stylist" together approximately once, annually) had recently gotten a boob job. The rest of the planet, somehow aware of the healing ritual associated with breast augmentation, had forbidden the stylist from holding a hair dryer up above her liver level. I have no idea what is involved in any sort of plastic surgery (I was thankful to be getting a haircut), so I just remained quiet and stared at her boobies.

Feeling aesthetically empowered from the haircut, I decided to get a pedicure as well, and headed over to the nail salon.

Saturday morning at the nail salon is plastic-boob-a-rama. Against the back wall, high-maintenance-looking women daintly extracted themselves from their kitten heels and flicked themselves into brand-new pedicure chairs that looked like oversized La-Z-Girls on the Starship Enterprise.

I flung off a flip flop as well, and hopped into a chair. The owner, a metrosexual, 5-ft. tall Vietnamese guy with a barbed wire tattoo and more gel than hair, beamed proudly as I examined the new pedi chair. It had a remote with 700 buttons. I pushed them all. The "kneading" option was nice, but when I finally got to "random", "full body", and "HIGH", the chair was bucking me like a drunk on a mechanical bull.

Normally, one is probably expected to let out a sudden, restrained, "Ooh!" and power off, but I kept on truckin'. Women tried to look up casually from the manicure tables to see what the noise was (nice fake stretch, there, blondie) but I wanted to see how long I could ride my chair until someone finally burst out laughing. Ten minutes later, a blinking red light informed me that the chair had either cycled out, or I had killed it.

I kept flipping through my Cosmo like nothing happened, and left, quietly humming "Sister Christian" to myself.

MOTORIN'!
What's your price for flight?
And finding Mr. Right?
You'll be alright .... tonight