The “complimentary champagne” tasted like regret and a felony.

I’m not trying to be dramatic (yes I am), but the vibes in there were giving “front business.” First off: the “complimentary champagne” was served in a plastic flute that still smelled like dish soap and poor decisions. One sip and my soul filed a complaint. Second: they were running a “silent appointment” policy but the staff was screaming into speakerphone like they were auditioning for a reality show. One lady is arguing about a man named “Troy” while filing my nails into witness-protection. Third: the price list changed mid-appointment. MID. Like I’m getting my cuticles pushed back and suddenly I’m financing a car. Then I notice the back room door. In and out, in and out. Not clients. Not deliveries. Just the kind of traffic that makes you want to mind your business and keep your receipt. My nails look good, yes. But do I feel spiritually safe? No. I left with a fresh set and a fresh sense of fear. If you go, take a friend and don’t drink anything they hand you that bubbles.