I Had a Beautiful Experience at a Non-Toxic Salon
Let me tell you all about it 💅
The salon is called Sundays. It’s located in the East Village.
I was meandering through the neighborhood with no particular place to be. It was my day off, and I had murky ideas about getting some sort of beauty treatment (a blow-out maybe?) Plus, I had a date later, with Ian, 38, of Greenpoint. Doing a beauty treatment beforehand makes you feel like you’re in a movie montage a la Bridget Jones Diary or Clueless.
I walked past Sundays, then did a double take. It was obviously a nail salon, but it didn’t appear to be the quasi clinical salon I was used to, with its formaldehyde smells and Mandarin chatter.
I went inside, purely out of curiosity. Then, I was greeted by a gentle receptionist, who was all too happy to answer my question: What’s Sundays?
“Sundays is a vegan, non-toxic, cruelty-free nail salon,” he informed me, his blue eyes resting on me disarmingly.
He was clearly a disciple of his product: I felt no slick oleo of salesmanship as he ran through his stunning menu: there were rose petal baths, coconut milk soaks, massages and sugar scrubs, deep hydrating treatment masks, and 10-minute long back massages, as you enjoyed any of the above. By the end of his recitation, I was a convert, ready to pack up and move to his vegan Jonestown.
“It IS silly that we use toxic chemicals on our hands and feet!” I mused, watching them fill my milk bath. Never mind that I had a pantry full of Bath & Body Works products, which allegedly cause endocrine damage — (if TikTok is to be believed). And the only vegan food I consume is tap water.
I noted, with some chagrin, that Sundays had no massaging chairs. I’d soon forget to miss them: instead, I sat perched on a soft, plush chair that could’ve been plucked from Taylor Swift’s living room. The music playing wasn’t the typical Woo-Woo Wind Chimes, but the soft and dewy sounds of Astrid Gilberto and Frank Sinatra. In fact, everything was soft, rosy, and feminine here: the manicure tables had no bulky equipment, just soft mats, awaiting their next set of hands. Even my foot bath, with its swirls of coconut milk and rose pedals, looked like something the Venus Di Milo would bathe in.
The salon was a slower pace all around, which meant more personalized treatment.
“Can I offer you some tea?” asked the receptionist. “Jasmine, mint, chamomile, Earl Grey, or Rooibos?” I said maybe later — this was about to be a 75 minute long treatment, after all.
“Would you like to listen to binaural beats?” He offered, his eyes bird baths of earnestness. “May I suggest when you get to your 10 minute massage?”
“Yeah, that does sound nice,” I murmured. I wondered what the hell he would offer next — a God of Eros to take me in the back to complete this sensual experience?
I knew “cruelty-free” was supposed to refer to the nail polish, but it somehow translated over to the whole experience. My nail tech was a lot gentler than what I was used to. I had been avoiding getting a pedicure for the same reason one avoids the dentist: the longer you wait, the more it hurts.
But even when she used the pumice stone on my callouses, she was delicate. Usually this part feels like my nail tech is using a cheese grater on my foot, and I writhe and wiggle in pain, causing her to mutter cryptically to her coworkers. But it was all totally enjoyable.
Just as I was sure I had landed on Planet Venus, one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen entered the salon. She looked like a young Naomi Campbell, and she glided like a swan. With her height and her crane-like dimensions, I knew she had to be a model. When she opened up her mouth to speak to her nail tech, it was in a British accent. An elegant, refined accent that sounded as though she had been to the same finishing school as the Middleton girls.
She and I got to talking. It turns out, she was a model: she had walked in Louis Vuitton shows when she was 16.
(“LV” she called it). Nowadays, she still modeled, but not at the same level. She answered questions on her Instagram about the modeling industry for curious girls.
I was one such curious girl. I confessed that I had always had a thing for models. I loved beauty. When I was little, I wanted desperately to be thought of as beautiful. There was a lot of food I wouldn’t eat and things I would do to keep myself slim and “pretty.” A visit to the nail salon always made me feel pretty.
We shared stories about our dating experiences in NYC. I expected her to reveal that John Stamos texted her whenever he was drunk, and Jay Z invited her to his Hamptons parties. But she was single, and mainly content with her friendships. I shared with her that I had a date, and we squealed like girls over his picture. “He’s cute!” she said approvingly, nodding at Ian’s wonky, bespectacled visage.
Meanwhile, my nail tech gently massaged my calves. She painted my toes in non-toxic pink (not since Molly Ringwald had a girl been so associated with the color).
While my toes dried, Ian from Greenpoint sent me a text, cancelling our date. I felt a slight implosion — not because I wouldn’t see him, but because the impetus for the pedicure was gone. My whole spectacle was colored slightly foolish in its wake. I felt like Blanche du Bois when she realizes the millionaire from Louisiana is just a myth of her mind, and she’s all alone with her costume jewelry.
“Now you’re already for your date!” the model cheered. I didn’t correct her. Something had been taken from me, but something else was restored, by her face, and the soft environment.
I looked at my shimmering toes. They were beautiful.
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