Sunday, July 10, 2011

New Jersey Meets the South

     I was in the local nail salon I’ve been going to for nearly ten years for my monthly-ish (OK, sometimes it’s a bimonthly) pedicure.  The owners are there six days a week, twelve hours a day, helped by one other woman.  The salon is very clean and attractive, and the pedicure you get there for $20 is much more labor intensive with paraffin heel wraps and hot stone massage.  I realize that I have lost any male readers I might have had at this point but two; my husband, who is still choking over $20 being spent on toes, and my brother, who is lamenting over the state of his dry heels.

            While happily dozing through a luscious foot massage, the serenity was broken by the entrance of two women and a group of young girls.  After being cordially greeted by both owners, she announced in a loud and grating voice that she’d called the previous day to set up manicures and pedicures for a large wedding party.  Great, I thought, lots of business for some hard-working people.

            The loud woman, whom I’d by now identified as having both a thick New Jersey accent and even thicker New Jersey diva attitude, began trying to intimidate the owners into doing the mani/pedis with French tips and four designs for only $15 instead of the $42.  The owner obviously didn’t know whether to laugh or get angry.  “You kidding me?” he asked in his Asian accent.  “You want me to do for two-thirds less?  Why I would do that?”  I could see her thoughts plainly – because you’re foreign you must be stupid…therefore I can bully you into doing it for almost nothing.  “Because seven more people are coming and it’s a lot of money.  Can’t you count?”  To my disbelief, she started counting on her fingers like she was giving a two year old gummy bears.  “One, two, three…”

            “I can count,” the owner replied.  “We don’t do nails for free.”  The Jersey Diva became irate and began to shout that she could do the nails much better herself at home.  “Then why you here?” he asked in exasperation.  Finally, after seeing that the dumb foreigners would not sing and dance for a couple of measly bucks, she shouted at the top of her marinara sauce and Jack Daniels coated voice, “You want me to take my money somewhere else?  Huh?  Do you?” 

            “Yes!”  The owner’s wife exclaimed, “Out!  Don’t come in my salon and yell in front of my customers!”

            The owner moves to the door and opens it, hoping Jersey Diva will take a hint.  Seeing this sends her again into hysterics.  “You want me to take my money somewhere else?” she screeches again, looking as if she might have an aneurysm.  “YES!” the clients shout in chorus from the spa chairs, the nail stations, and the drying table.  Jersey Diva spins around and stomps out to the spontaneous applause of the clientele.  The small Divas-in-Training suck their teeth, roll their eyes in disgust, and saunter out behind Queen Entitlement.  The owner shuts the door firmly after them and asks aloud, “WHAT was THAT??”

            That, folks, was New Jersey.  To this day I am amazed at the dramatic differences in regional cultures.  What make some areas prone to the loud, dramatic, and intolerable, while others produce those that are laid back and soft-spoken?  While I realize that I cannot judge an entire state by the behavior of a few, but geez…stereotypes don’t just build themselves, do they?  Bridezilla temper tantrums may be a common sight in the Northeast, but I’ve never seen such a display anywhere but on TV.  My sisters called me a Bridezilla because I cried in frustration over some decorative bows while running on three hours sleep.  You just don’t see this kind of junk down here unless you get a Cuban and a Puerto Rican in the same room and they start debating the proper way to roast pork.

            I guess I just don’t get it.  As a born and bred Southerner, I would rather have my toes buttered and deep-fried than make a public scene over the price of something.  Reputation and family name just seem to something we like to preserve in small town Florida.  Maybe I’m just a dumb Southerner – maybe all transactions in Jersey are conducted in ear-splitting screeches.

            There is a funny end to the story though.  The next time I was in, I asked about the Jersey Diva.  She actually had the nerve to come back in later that day with her entire mafia…err, mob…err, posse trailing behind her.  Having apparently been turned away from all the other nail salons in town (including “Nail So Happy!” – I love that one) she came back to try to strike another deal.  Jersey Diva got shot down quick – even though the salon was empty at the time, she was told that her business wasn’t needed.  Somewhere in central Florida, a New Jersey woman with a hopefully much smaller attitude got married with naked nails and dry heels.

            There is one Southern trait that crosses race, language, and nationality lines…self-respect. 

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