Home Is Where the Nail Salon Is.

While these days I’m living smack-dab in the middle of a major metropolitan city with all the bells & whistles such surroundings afford—live theater, art museums, seriously awesome rock concerts, a Starbucks on every corner, day spas, eclectic and dynamic night life—big city life is really just not what’s at the heart of me. I grew up in a small town of working class people, where we celebrated Halloween as if it were a national holiday and went to Sunday services more often than not. The hills around us harbored proud farmers still holding tightly the American dream, planting corn instead of soy bean, while their stay-at-home wives cooked pot roasts, darned socks, quilted, and minded the children.

There was a “do it yourself” sensibility that permeated and defined our lives in such a deep way, that it was as much a part of us as the river that ran through the valley. And if we came up against a task or project that was outside our grasp or beyond our knowledge, we did the next best thing to doing it ourselves, which was turn to our family and friends. It was a hybrid volunteer barter system, I suppose; only nobody kept score and no one was in any hurry to balance the books.

How some tradesmen stayed in business in our little do-it-yourself corner of the world is both mystery and miracle. Plumbers were only called when we re-broke what was already broken, moving vans were usually only seen on the interstate bifurcating our 25 mph zones (a Chevy pickup and a few good friends did just fine), our mothers baked rather than bought dessert (mmm…chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven), men kept battery cables and tire jacks in the trunks of their cars, and young girls ducked aunts proficient in the application of home perms.

But a few years later here in metro-land and it’s official: Along with being a Catholic-school-girl-gone-bad and vanilla-girl-gone-Domme, I am now (drum roll, please) a small-town-girl-gone-big-city. The transformation was neither easy nor quick. I spent the better part of my first year in this menagerie of towering condos, industrial lofts, iPods, martini bars, speeding SUVs, coffee grinders, epure décor, and designer sunglasses calling home to my friends, crying, and being desperately homesick.

I remember very clearly the beginning of my glorious de-thawing: I was sitting with Michael, a prospective client my company was ardently wooing, at a table outside of Starbucks. The sun was shining brightly as we sipped lattes, and I people-watched through my (yes, designer) sunglasses. Turning to Michael to comment on something or other, I experienced a mini-epiphany, realizing that there I was, quite grown-up in my business suit and heels, sitting at Starbucks, exchanging sophisticated banter with one of the most gorgeous men I’d ever seen. (Long blonde hair, Roman nose, cleft chin, lanky legs in tight and sharply pressed jeans, cowboy boots, collar-less shirt, and suede sports jacket….get the picture?) Thinking to myself that I was sitting there with a fucking rock star, I was instantaneously enamored with the new and improved me, enchanted with big city living, addicted to super-sized caffeine injections, and utterly in lust with Michael.

So the big city and I had become friends. Well, at least tentative friends. In the ways that mattered—at least to my ever-growing gaggle of upwardly chic friends—I walked like a big city girl and talked like a big city girl. Secretly, I remained a closet “do it yourselfer,” driving 25 miles to my brother’s house in the suburbs every Sunday to wash my car in his driveway, rather than utilizing the car wash just down my street. I was still shampooing my own carpets and had put together a bookcase for my home office.

But to paraphrase Mr. Dylan, the times—they were a-changing.

It seems my DAM (Decadence Alert Mechanism), which I suspect is subcutaneously implanted in all small town newborns, was beginning to short circuit on an increasingly regular basis. The first time was when I let the supermarket bag boy load my groceries into the trunk of my car rather than be embarrassed by his offer. Then there were those nights when I actually opted for delivery in rather than making the trek to the supermarket. (Did you know that in big cities you can actually have chili cheese fries, Greek salads, or even porter house steaks delivered right to your door? Wish I could say the same for mail delivery!) The next thing you know, I was taking a new dress to the tailor to be hemmed, ignoring the well-stocked sewing basket of which I was once so proud.

The final meltdown came when I decided to treat myself (just one time!) to a pedicure and manicure. Now, you have to understand that I’ve always been obsessive about keeping my nails in perfect condition. My nail care basket puts that poor, neglected sewing basket to shame: Emery boards of every shape and grade (it matters!), bottled polish remover, individual polish remover pads, hand cream, cuticle oil, cuticle cream, orange sticks, polish thinner, pumice stones, cotton balls, emery blocks, nail buffers, nippers, nail clips, nail bleach, nail filler, bottom coats, top coats, quick-dry coats, gloss coats. Not to mention an ever-changing variety of nail polishes, including French nail kits (I had to try every brand, of course!) and all the new stuff that is constantly coming out and I had to have. All of that was waiting for me, but I had a limited amount of time and a high-glam holiday party that evening, so off I went to find a salon. I found one—Walk-Ins Welcome!—about three blocks from my apartment.

And so, toting my latest read to keep me occupied during what I was sure would be quite a tedious procedure, I stepped into a nail salon for the very first time. After a few minutes of waiting, I was led to the pedicure chair where, once I was seated, the pedicurist,

So I closed my eyes and sank into the soporific rhythms of full back – kneading. It was when I felt Miranda’s gentle, seductive hands massaging a divinely ambrosial lotion into my calves, shins, ankles, and arches (oh, sweet heaven!) that I was forever changed, born again in the waters of self indulgence.

who’d introduced herself as Miranda, removed my sandals and gently immersed my feet into a swirling bath of warm bubbles. Well, that feels kind of nice, I thought to myself, turning to reach for my book. But Miranda was standing in the way of my outstretched arm offering a remote control to me instead. She seemed to think I should know what it was, so—being fairly good at the big city girl act by now—I confidently took it.

As Miranda settled in to towel-dry my tootsies and remove what was to be—although I didn’t know it yet—the last bit of self-applied polish to ever touch those delicate little toenails, I started jabbing away at the colorful buttons on the mysterious remote. Suddenly, my chair began vibrating. Hmmm…interesting. I poked around at a few more buttons and the vibrations magically transformed into a pulsing wave. I was SO liking this! Settling back into the chair, I began inspecting the remote more closely, reading the schematic aligning the buttons. Holy Mary, Mother of Grace! This was a massage chair. I’d heard rumors of such things long ago in the Valley of Do it Yourself, and now I was actually sitting in one! As I perused and fiddled with the options and combinations (Kneading, compression, rolling and percussion—programmable for either upper, lower or full back!) and felt the delicious things this (fucking amazing!) chair was doing to my back, I wondered why in the world I’d ever found it noble to twist myself up like a pretzel to accomplish what Miranda was doing so effortlessly.

I wanted to enjoy this! So I closed my eyes and sank into the soporific rhythms of full back – kneading. It was when I felt Miranda’s gentle, seductive hands massaging a divinely ambrosial lotion into my calves, shins, ankles, and arches (oh, sweet heaven!) that I was forever changed, born again in the waters of self indulgence.

Despite my desire that this wondrous experience continue indefinitely, it had to end; and, all too soon, I was being helped out of what I’d come to think of as MY chair and taken to the manicure station, where Serena would take over for my French manicure.

Now, Serena was handicapped in that she could not perform her particular services while I luxuriated in MY chair—but its soothing, calming influences lingered. So when she suggested I forego the natural nail treatment I’d originally requested for the trendier and sturdier acrylic nails that were “all the rage,” I acquiesced with nary a quiver of protest. Languidly drifting down from the lofty Netherlands of my pedicure high, I watched as Serena performed her ministrations with the agile confidence of a true professional to produce absolutely stunning results. My nails were perfection and I was hooked!

So that is how I got from there to here, a small town girl finding out that big city living ain’t so bad after all and self-indulgence can be a thing of beauty. This doesn’t mean, however, that I’m still not a small town girl at heart; I always will be. In fact, I’ve got all my manicured-to-the-nines fingers and toes crossed that Thomas Wolfe was wrong and I can go home again…at least some day. But you can bet that when I do, I’ll be doing it in a limousine.

• In case you were wondering, Michael—my little Tom Petty look alike—turned out to be gay. He and his lover of 20 years are now very good friends of mine.

• If you’re still doing your nails yourself, keeping your nail polish in the refrigerator will slow down the thickening process.

• OPI is the best nail polish in the world, available only at your finer salons. Check out I’m Not Really a Waitress for a cute and sassy red the dresses up the toenails quite nicely.

• If you want the perfect French Manicure, ask for a “pink and white.” For a few dollars more, it extends the time between rebases and adds a healthy pink glow to the nail bed.