A little ink and a little attitude goes a loooong way.

I know most women reeeeally enjoy getting their nails done.  And their feet.  I get that.

I’m not one though.  It has become somewhat of a chore for me.  I go as long as I can between fills and chiseling the barnacles off my hoofs.  I just don’t love it.

Never have.

And don’t be talking to me and getting up in my business while I’m in a semi-conscious state in that pedicure chair.  I talk and entertain all day at the work joint.  And they pay me.  I don’t want to do it for free at the nail salon.

(I’m sure you see where this is going.)

Last week, it was time.  I could go no longer.

(Well, “I” could have.  Those having to look at my nails and feet…not so much.)

Picture it:

Nails done first.  Polish is still wet.

I’m strolling over to the pedicure chair.  Hands outstretched in front of me and my jeans rolled up past my knees and I’m barefoot.

I’m doing my best not to jack up my polished nails.

A ‘husband’ had bumbled in to sit and wait on his wife while her pedicure was being finished up.

(I will immediately break up with/divorce/kick in the sack any man in my life that feels he needs to sit and look at me in the nail salon.)

(I don’t pop in at the strip joint and he doesn’t pop in at the nail salon.)

(Sorry if you feel different.  We all know I’m odd.)

(And we ALL know if I had a man who frequented strip joints, I’d be popping in and busting balls without thinking twice.)

(In front of his idiot buddies.)

Anyway.

Husband with the mullet is sitting there as I stroll past in my rather feminine Frankenstein jaunt.  And I hear him whisper a loud ass whisper to his wife:

Mullet husband:  “Hey.  She has a tattoo on her foot.  I bet that hurt.”

Wife:  “Ooohh…she shore does.”

(Uh, huh.  Shore.)

(Said with three syllables.)

(To get the full feel of being there…double up on the twang in your head when you read their part of the conversation.)

(They make me sound severely educated and from royalty.)

(Compared to them, I really no longer have a twang.)

I act like I hear nothing and keep heading to the chair.

I perch up in it and all is good in the world.

Wife gets up and goes into another room get her birds-nest eyebrows mowed down.

Annnnnnd here he comes.  Right up to the side of my damn chair.

Mullet husband:  “Hey, that there hurt on your foot?”

Me:  “Yeah, it was pretty rough.”

Mullet husband:  “Now, when I got mine here on my arm, that hurt like a mother on the underneath part.”

(A mother.  Really?  A mother.)

And he proceeds to roll up his ratty t-shirt sleeve and in his best macho-ey way, show me his tattooed upper arm.

Flexing his bicep.  Of course, he was.

Me:  “Yeah, I bet it did.  That skin is pretty tender.”

I roll my head back away from his direction.

Mullet husband:  “Yeah, and on this one here…oh, man!  When he started with adding the color, I thought I was gonna scream!”

(Wuss.  Big, hairy wuss.)

And he proceeds to roll up his OTHER ratty t-shirt sleeve, flexing his other bicep and showing me his other inked up upper arm.

(I’m not impressed.)

(At all.)

(But I’m nice because hey, it’s who I am.)

Me:  “Yeah, I bet it did.”

Mullet husband:  “Yeah, I think I might be done at two.  But you know, like they say once you get one it’s addicting and you want more.  I been thinking about another one but she don’t think I need to spend the money on it.”

Me:  “Yeah, that’s what I hear.  You get one, you want another.”

Mullet husband:  “So, when are you getting your next one?”

Me:  “Oh, I’m done.  I don’t think I’ll be getting anymore.”

Mullet husband then goes into full-on macho I’m-a-stud-because-I-have-two-tattoos mode.  Pacing around the shop so everyone can hear him tell me how he’s got two tattoos.

And both ratty t-shirt sleeves are still rolled up.

(Like that shit makes him studly.)

Mullet husband:  “Aww, you gonna stop now?  Really?  Come on!  After that first one the second one is nothing.  You can do it…toughen up and just go for it!  You gotta be tougher than that!”

Me:  “No, I think I’m done.”

Mullet husband:  “Pfft.  Whatever.  I’m done at two.”

I just slowly turned in his direction, smiled a little and calmly said:

Me:  “I hear you.  But I’m done at five.”

The blood drained from his face.

My balls were pretty damn huge at that point.

I just smiled.

He had been strutting around doing his best to be all mullet-y bad ass for at least 7 minutes.

Mullet husband:  “No way, you got five?”

Wife walks out all beet-red at the brow bone.

Me:  “Way.  And for a small fee…I’ll show you all five if you think she’ll let you spend the money on it.”

Mullet husband:  (Kinda chuckles in a scared way) (Cause it was evident she wears the pants in that little love fest.)  “Nah, that’s alright.  I believe you.”

And they pay and leave.

And I roll my head back away from his direction.