I'll Sell You the Semantics, Too!

"You are a beautiful woman," said Talldarkhandsome Man with Accent. Egyptian, he'll tell me later.

I paused in my step, smiled weakly, and offered a "Oh, thanks..."

"May I show you something?" He held out his hand, and, inexplicably, I took it.

Before you think I'm being abducted, you must know I'm in the bright and sunny Exton Square shopping mall, and I've just been lured to a kiosk.

"My God," he said, looking deeply into my eyes, "you are beautiful."

"I-- Thank you. I only have a minute--" He takes my other hand in his. "--but okay."

He begins buffing my nails with a multi-colored block. "You are tall. You must be a model," he tells me. I laugh, trying not to cry at the scratching on my nails. If you know me well, you know I'd rather do anything than hear, much less experience, a nail-filing.

Somehow, ten minutes pass. My left pointer finger and right thumb have been buffed to perfection and reflect the clerk's--David's--dark brown eyes. "May I?" he asks politely, beginning to massage lotion into my cuticles and hands.

"How old are you?" he asks. (In hindsight, for the life of me, I cannot figure out how this is an effective sales tactic for women.)

"Twenty-one," I respond, already expecting the standard response:

"No! Twenty-one?! No. You are older than that! You are too beautiful to be twenty-one." (Whatever that means.)

But somehow we're off under the bright and sunny skylight of the mall, laughing like old friends. Ew. Am I giggling with the shamelessly flirty salesman because he called me pretty? No. Heck, I don't even like beauty products that much. He misjudged his audience, because I've probably had my nails down three times in my life and I don't even own a nail file.

(Side note from earlier this week: Mike: "Are you actually cutting your nails with clippers instead of biting them?" Me: "Yes." Mike: "You're a grown-up!!")

"Listen, David, I really should be getting back to work..."

He puts the beauty set in my hand--the cuticle oil, the lotion, the nail block. "$59.99," he tells me.

"What? No, I--"

"Okay, okay," he says, waving his hands in the air. "I give you $39.99."

"Tell you what," I say. "If my nails are still shiny in one month, like you say, I'll come back and buy it."

After some begging on his part and some politeness on mine, we separate.

A few days pass. I really, really like my shiny thumb nail and pointer finger. I miss the buffing block. I return to the mall, this time for a good eyebrow waxing. I pass by the kiosk successfully; David is not there. On the way back, my entire face pink and swollen in the name of beauty, the girl who was working with David recognizes me.

"Hey, I remember you!" she declares. I smile a hello, and keep wa--

"My God, you are beautiful!" says another Talldarkhandsome Man with Accent. Italian, he'll tell me later. You're kidding me.

"Oh, thank you. I really can't--" He takes my hand and guides me to the kiosk. "Oh, okay."

He shows me the buffer. I explain that i was already here and know how it works. Suddenly, my opposite thumb looks so dull next to the shiny one. I get an idea.

"Can you show me how to do it myself?" I put out my left thumb. He puts the block in my hand and lies his over it.

"You have beautiful hair," he tells me as he presses the back of my hand with his palm and begins buffing.

"Thank you." Bullshit. I haven't touched my hair for more than thirty seconds since I chopped it off. It looks wreckless all the time and I adore it. "Now, you say this lasts for a whole month?" My thumb nail is practically sparkling in a dance with the other. They've never looked better. Uh oh. "How much is just the nail block?"

"You don't want just the--"

"Listen, I am not buying anything but the nail block. Seriously. How much is it?"

"Fifteen dollars, but, here, let's just put the cuticle oil on." He takes my left hand and lifts it to his face and he carefully applies the oil. "How many boyfriends do you have? You must have a mill--"

"Married," I smile.

"No!" His accent, I've decided, is fake. "You are just saying that to me!" I tilt my hand to show my diamond. He free hand flies to his heart. "NO! Oh, no. I am heartbroken. He is a lucky man."

He tells me the whole set is $39.99. He tells me I should get the whole thing. He tells me I am beautiful.

"Nope. I'm not paying that. Give me the nail block, and that's it." I hand him my card, and he reads it.

"You married an Italian, eh?" I nod proudly, thinking of my husband's bright blue eyes and blonde curls. "Here, are you a student? Let's pretend you're a--"

"I am a student. I graduate on Thursday." Again, proudly.

"Well, let's just pretend you're still a student and--"

"But I am--"

"--we'll give you the discount. Here. $34.99."

"Nope. Not paying that much."

"Oh, you're breaking my heart." He mumble to hiimself in Spanish, and I feel the the South AMerican bargainer igniting in me.

"Give me the discount by throwing it in with the block."

He throws his hand in mock surprise. "No! I cannot!" He clicks away madly at a calculator. He is typing nonsense, I know. "Fine. $29.99"

"No. I don't even want the oil and the lotion!" I say.

I'll spare the rest of the details, but we're somehow at $19.99 for the whole set.

I do not want the whole set.

I agree.

I sign my name on the receipt for $21.20 with shame, gulping as I swirl "Colletto" and think of the man who'll no doubt see some vague, meaningless name like "Deja Vu" on our statement. Minerals from the Dead Sea, I'll argue....

I relate this whole story rapidly and desperately to Mike when he finds a receipt stapled to a small piece of paper with a man's name on it. He shakes his head at me as I hang my own in shame.

"You're ridiculous," he says, smiling.

It was the most beautiful thing I'd heard said to me all day.