Because there's 50 bajillion nail polish colors to choose from, picking one (let alone two, if you want to mix it up between fingers and toes) is very stressful. I generally wind up trying out every single color of polish (so my fingernails are a patchwork of tiny, multi-colored blobs), choosing one, changing my mind, forgetting which one is the one in the right bottom corner of my thumb (which is the one I want now), having to try every single color again to try and find that exact one, finding it, immediately regretting my decision once the beautician starts painting my nails, at which point it's too late to change my mind again.
Getting a foot spa is supposed to be relaxing and yet all I can do is convulse in giggles. The lady at my salon doesn't even both grating the bottom of my feet any more because I think she's sick of me screaming and almost kicking her in the face every time I feel ticklish, which is every single second it's happening.
When a woman is tearing all the pubes off of my vagina the last thing I want to do is engage in conversation. But there are those beauticians who will try to make small talk at all costs. What part of me laying prostrate holding my legs behind my ears with one hand and pulling my butt cheeks apart with the other says I want to chat right now? I understand that this woman is probably just trying to put me at ease and be nice, but lady, just keep ripping. The faster the better. Let's leave the chit chat for all the times I'm not spread-eagle with your face in my vag as you pluck out wiley strays.
You know when your nails are drying and one of the ladies comes up behind you and starts torturing you with some shoulder pinching and/or pummeling your spine with her fists? There's no real way to get out of this, short of saying "stop it, stop it now", so it becomes a very anxiety inducing situation in which you're corned between the nail dryer and the beauticians evil massage with no where to run. I get super awkward and immature when this happens; I let them go for about a minute, then I start shrugging them off while going "thank you thank you thank you" as though I'm super satisfied.
Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than when, at the end of my salon session, the women who have already been in contact with my dead foot skin, butt sweat and ample pubic hair try to dress me. Those ladies have already done enough. They fought the war on my body and they returned triumphant. It's absolute absurdity when they try to put on my shoes and your coat for me too, and it makes me feel like some kind of Kim Kardashian-style scumbag overlord, which easy, breezy salon girl is most definitely not.