To begin with, one would think, what with the nail salon in the storefront half a stumble to the right of my front door (ask Mark about the time he pulled up in the Tutumobile to pick me up from rehearsal but, instead of zipping out of the door of the apartment building, I popped out of the nail salon waving ten perfect blood-red, not-quite-dry fingertips), I’d have perpetually impeccably groomed nails. But god knows I hadn’t done my nails in a month and I hadn’t had them done professionally since last December, when I spent the first blizzard of the season tromping through the meatpacking district to the newest Rescue Salon to spend more money than I should have (for an experience that is worth every cent: complimentary giant bottomless mug of organic herbal tea to warm me up from the cold cruel weather? They are healers there, I tell you—the cost should be covered by my health insurance.) So I stopped in on my way from the gym. They said it would be a 30-45 minute wait. I asked if I could go away and come back, and they told me to come back in ½ and hour. So I went upstairs, called my mother, checked my e-mail, and had a snack and a cup of coffee. When I went back downstairs they looked through me like they had never seen me before (who the heck do you think is stepping over your sorry, sucking-nicotine-sticks- in-my-doorway ass at 8:30 in the morning when you arrive 10 minutes before the person entrusted with the keys?). I waited politely for 10 minutes and then walked up to 55th Street to the newer, cleaner, more spacious place that has heated, back-massaging seats built into the pedicure stations.