So, I paint my nails pretty regularly these days. I also work as a barista/cashier pretty regularly these days. A few weeks back, I had a customer come in, a fairly typical, sheltered, suburban soccer mom, and she ordered a latte from me. She saw my brightly colored nails and said, “Wow, you’re so brave! My son asked me about painting his nails, and if it’s okay for boys to do that. Now I’ll tell him there’s a cool guy who does it too!” It was a nice moment, very cute.
Then, last week, she came in again, and said, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here! I want you to meet someone!” She then brings her son forward, and says, “Okay sweetie, show him what you did!” And he throws his hands up, showing off his bright, sparkling blue nails. He shows them off, and I show mine off to him. He smiles. We fist bump.
Guys, I’ve only wanted to cry once at work before, and that was when someone ordered a large dry soy cappuccino on ice.
This time, though. This was a good cry.
Nail polish is just paint.
Since when is paint not manly.
Revisiting the past for my dissertation. C.
Whenever I see buildings like this that have no redeeming aesthetic quality, I just think to myself, “Someone had to design that.” Couldn’t you have done anything to make it a bit less soul crushingly bland Mr or Mrs Architect?
I’ve decided that Monday can sod off. In order to facilitate said sodding off, I intend to spend the next hour watching surgeon simulator rage quit videos in order to fend off sleep.