There was a nail shop artist among us, from a crappy, raggedy place called downtown Chinatown. And this man (yes, man), thought he was so fabulous he didn’t know what to do with himself. All around the shop he swept, snapping his fingers, shaking his head and breaking out in random show-tunes from High School Musical and Rent, even though the only words he ever really said in English were, “that be 5 dollah more,” and “oh no honey you look hot mess, no wonder you have no boyfriend.” He had perfectly arched eyebrows, nails manicured to perfection, and a flawless hipster look to wrap it up which consisted of skinny jeans, graphic tee and high-topped Nikes, (“because low tops are suck-ahs with no money”).

The nail artist was hilarious and a favorite of the customers, always cracking jokes about her dollar store Prada bag or his nasty looking hair, or even his mother’s nasty looking hair, not really caring who’s feelings got hurt. Because secretly, he was a ninja. He could slap a betch better than any pimp on Broadway, and could claw eyes out better than any chick on Gossip Girl. He was even a master of the Okasaki technique back in Taiwan, achieving even OG ninja status. But we won’t get into that.

But his skill with a nail polish wand and cuticle gel were unmatched. He could paint a flower on a girl’s nail that it would bring you to tears, wax a brow so viciously good your face would be traumatized for days, and give you guy advice so great you wonder why you ever subscribed to match.com in the first place. So great was his skill that even celebrities came knocking on his door, asking for mani-pedis, but he graciously declined, (“I don’t paint nails for bimbos, sweetie”), and decided that he liked life the way was, simple in his fabulous shop. Nail artists are interesting people.