I know what’s coming next. It’s the price I pay for a perfect manicure. First, she starts with cutting my nails and buffing them to perfection. Then, she cuts back my cuticles into a half-circle. Even though I’m excited to have hot pink nails to go on vacation with, I have to endure the hell that comes with getting them professionally done. She reaches for her filer beside her and begins to vigorously saw down my first nail. 

The action makes me queasy and sends chills down my spine. Rounding my thumbnail to an almond-shaped point she moves on to my next nail. I can’t take it. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Deep down I know how ridiculous I must look being an adult that can’t handle a nail filer. It seems like she is taking an eternity. Back and forth, back and forth the filer whirs around my nail, sculpting it and taking away its imperfections. She finishes the second nail and inspects and compares it to my thumb. Unsatisfied with what she sees she goes back to my thumb and tries to get them to look identical. Squirming I can hardly sit still. The grating noise against my nail is driving me to insanity. 

Desperately I try to take my mind off things by looking at the TV on the wall across from me. HGTV is playing reruns of fixer-upper, not my cup of tea. All I can do is think of how nice it will be to have manicured nails before going to Florida. Sitting at the pool an iced tea in one hand, and tanning lotion in the other. The sun beating down on me and leaving me with a sun-kissed glow. That’s where I want to be. Meanwhile, the manicurist is taking painstaking steps to ensure that each nail is pristine. While I appreciate the effort and the eventual end result, it takes everything in me to not pull my hand away. All I can do is cope with my discomfort. After five more minutes of grueling torture, she decides that the nails are uniform and ready to paint. Even though I hated every second of it, I can’t help but smile at my new immaculate set of nails.