An hour at the nail salon was a very interesting experience. 40-something, Peter, from Vietnam worked magic on my feet. He was wearing leather loafers, a white Ralph Laren Polo, some khaki shorts and looked like he had just played a round of 18 holes on the golf course.
I’m not normally the kind to reveal much about myself to strangers but after an hour he knew my life story and all I knew about him was that he left Los Angeles a month ago because he was forced to. That’s all he would say. Mysterious. Ah well. He still made me giggle when he took his long finger nails and cat scratched my ankles as a part of the “spa experience.” Weird?