giving “bad manicure” a new meaning.

Ashley called me early yesterday and we formulated a plan-for-Saturday. It included lunch, a manicure, and a shopping mission. What more can two best girl friends ask for on a rainy Columbia day?

We started at DiPrato’s. And I, with a mozzarella and tomato panini. (I think I’m finally starting to get over my bad grilled cheese experience at Panera.)

Then we headed to get our nails did. This is where the fun happened. You know how it goes at the nail salon. You go in, put your name on the list, pick out your color, and then they tell you they’re ready for you. They got Ashley first. I was still humming over greys and pinks. So she was taken ’round the corner to a table and soon after I heard her call after me “hey, I’m going upstairs.” Upstairs? I didn’t know there was an upstairs, but okay.

Ten to fifteen minutes later it was go-time for me and Ashley was nowhere in sight when I got escorted to a table. You know how manicures are supposed to be relaxing? Tick tock, where is Ashley?, tick tock, is she still alive?, tick tock, I think she could cut a bitch, tick tock, oh you’re finished with my nails already?

Fifteen minutes later, my nails are dry and a guy in head to toe Dickies (hey, we picked a nail salon we knew about between DiPrato’s and the mall) says to me “do you want me to take you upstairs to see your friend?” So there we go, alone, on an elevator, me and Dickie. Upstairs was a huge room, full of [empty] manicure tables and [empty] pedicure tables and dear ole Ashley, still drying her nails while literally having her head talked off by a guy who then, somehow, proceeded to detach my head from my body as well over the next thirty minutes. I’ve never seen anything like it. Among what I gained by he-who-I-hope-to-never-see-again is that he’s a black belt in karate and a massage therapist who slept with his best friend’s girlfriend and believes people would be willing to poison [us].

The headless duo Ashley and Kristin soon enough sprinted from the nail salon, never to return again.

You’d think we would have rewarded ourselves for our heroism with oodles of dresses and jewels galore but our shopping trip all over Columbia – from Columbiana Center to Petal to Wish to My Kim – was a complete bust. And then lended us to, in typical fashion, shop Ashley’s closet.

Ay, caramba? Nah. Ay, Columbia!

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