The confessions of an awkward nail-salon client

The first time I ever went to a nail salon felt like such a treat. It was a birthday gift from a friend, and I couldn't wait to have nice-looking nails for once. I've always liked the way they look with polish on them, but when I try to do it myself at home, my lack of patience and general itchiness to move around results in a less-than-finished result. I've tried everything, from dipping my hands in ice-water after, to forcing myself to sit for twenty minutes in front of the television post-application, but it seems like I just have to breathe near my fingers and the varnish has gone somewhere it's not meant to.

Stepping in to the salon as a total nail-salon amateur, I was met with the pungent odour of chemicals and the overwhelmingly-vast array of coloured bottles of varnish. There were so many options available to the customer. Gel manicures, acrylics, extensions, nail art... as well as plenty of other things I didn't understand. Shellac, hard gel, paraffin wax treatment. My friend recommended I got shellac. I opted for something deep-blue and sparkly. To my delight, my nails didn't smudge immediately after application like I was used to. In fact, they stayed looking good for about a month afterwards. I was sold.

I've been back several times since. I try not to go too often. It does feel like something that should only be a treat for (relatively) special occasions. After all, I should probably use up the seventy-two million bottles of hardened polish I have at home. That would be the mature, non-wasteful option. Also, it's hard to justify spending twenty-five pounds a time when I could get at least five coffees out with that money, and I would definitely choose coffee over getting my nails done, EVERY time.

When I do decide to take myself to the nail salon, I notice when I'm there that my inner dialogue gets very loud and very entertaining. It's like the drunk friend at a party that won't shut up and gets more and more obscene as time goes on.

When you first walk through the door, there is usually no-one at the desk or the front to welcome you. Most of the nail technicians are usually engaged in nail-technicianing. I don't know if it's just me, but the nail salon often feels really quiet, and you almost feel guilty for breaking the silence. Every face in the salon turns to look at you.

"I'm just here to get my nails done," I usually say. Stating the obvious, of course. Like of course I'm not there to learn how to pole-dance.

Someone usually gets up at this point, or appears magically from a room at the back of the salon.

"Choose colour," they tell me, gesturing towards some colour samples hanging on the wall. And they usually follow this up with the question, "Acrylics?" Or something to that extent.

"No, just gel," I reply. I've learned not to say, "No, just normal nails," anymore.

Quite often, I have a colour idea in my head before going in. My colour-of-choice at the moment is 'Dublin green'. I've had it twice already. Last year I got a different colour on each nail, and felt like I'd put the whole nail salon organisation in jeopardy with my request. Several technicians had got involved, discussing in hushed whispers before finally agreeing that I could indeed have five different colours. You could have heard a pin drop while they whisked around picking up various bottles and shoving them in front of my face. "You like this one?" "This one?" I'd brought a dress along to match with the polish. I'd shyly taken it out of my bag and held it up to them while asking for my five complimentary colours. It could just as well have been a sachet of drugs or a gun I was holding up, the way that all eyes were drilling into my head at that moment.

Before the operation begins, you've got to set yourself up properly, I've realised. There's usually a mat or somewhere to place your hands. Being short, I often find that I have to stretch uncomfortably to get them where the technicians want them. Also, I've learned that they don't tell you where to put your hands. They use glances and gestures. A quick glance just below table-level means, "Put your hand into the UV dryer." I learned this the hard way. The first time my technician gestured below the table, I popped my hand back onto my lap, promptly smudging the fresh layer of polish. There'd been some raised eyebrows and silent tuttering.

Also, you've got to position your hands just right inside the dryer. Too far and you'll smudge the polish, not far enough and it won't dry properly. Again, I've learnt the hard way.

As I've mentioned previously, there's not a lot of chatter going on, except between the technicians. Usually in their native language. Sometimes there's some relaxing music playing. It throws you off. Am I being pampered right now, or tortured? I guess it's a bit of both, really.

Being British, it's really hard to not try to make small-talk. I start to agonise over whether I should have started my small-talk sooner, like the moment I came into the salon. Have I left it too late? Should I just stay silent now? But I don't want them to think I'm being rude, and only here for their service. Maybe it would be good to try to break down the customer-employee barrier.

I usually clear my throat awkwardly before launching into a one-liner such as, "Has it been busy today?"

All eyes on me again. The multiple-colour-picking, clear-instruction-misunderstanding dress-lady has broken the silence.

Sometimes the technician clearly appreciates the chance to launch into some sort of conversation with me. Sometimes they'd rather silence me with short answers to my questions.

If I'm not talking with my technician, I find it hard to know where I should be looking. I don't want to be focused too intently on my nails, otherwise they might think I'm being too critical of the process. I don't want to look at their face too much; that would be creepy. Sometimes I look out of the window, but then I feel like I'm being distant and uninterested. Usually I settle on glancing between my nails and the bottles of varnish on the wall behind them, at socially-acceptable intervals.

Sometimes I glance at other clients' nails, surreptitiously, of course. Sometimes their surreptitious glance meets your surreptitious glance and you both smile awkwardly. A meeting of souls, if you will. Looking at the other customers, I wonder at their uncanny ability to act so normal. No awkward conversation on their part. No wondering where to put their hands and eyes or what to do with their feet under the table. These must be of those who have been many-a-time to the nail salon. I am in awe.

When the technician takes each hand for the final time to whittle away at the bits of skin around my cuticles, I wonder if they've noticed how sweaty my hands have gotten. I also wonder if they think that my nails are in a bit of a state. At what point does a cuticle become too unkempt? Do I look like I don't take enough care of myself? Are they wondering why I don't shave my fingers or moisturise enough?

Then, all of a sudden, it's done. I stand up, obediently go over to the sink to wash my hands and dry it with one paper towel, because I don't want to look like I waste paper. Confidently - because by some miraculous act of God I've made it through the entire operation without blundering too much (unless you can count some annoying small talk as a blunder?) - I make my way over to the till, only to be reminded:

"Sorry, we only take cash."

Of course, how could I have forgotten! I leave my bag and my jacket and my soul behind, and run out of the shop and down the street to the nearest cash machine, promising to return as quickly as possible. As I walk quickly down the street, trying to recover from my embarrassment at forgetting yet another time, I look down at my nails and smile.

I may be awkward, but at least I have nice nails.