I don't do nails

For the past 10 minutes I have had a running dialogue with a woman as to whether or not I am a cosmetologist. This whole dialogue starts when the caller a somewhat polite (at first) elderly sounding woman asked to speak to Kevin. Now, there is no Kevin in this office, but I do work with a Kevin, so I did confuse the issue slightly by saying that Kevin wasn't in. However, to my defense, when asked if I did nails, I responded, appropriately, "no". I, again courteously explained that she had the wrong number and that this was in fact a mental health office. I hang up, phone rings again, This time I answer the phone, "mental health"; thus kicking off the great debate as to whether or not I was in fact a manicurist pretending to be a crisis counselor.

Just a quick aside, I do not have a feminine phone voice. I have probably never been referred to as Gruff and will not be doing any promos for the next big Action Movie coming out. You won't here me saying, "RACE FANS.... HOT RODDERS... PLUS THE SEXY MICHELLE.. SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY". Still not feminine.

So she, and again to her credit asked if this 555-5555 was in fact the correct number? To wit I of hairy chest and testosterone replied YES, trying my best to sound like Lerch from the old Adams Family (if she calls back, I'm going to say "YOU RANG"). This is when all the years of watching Matlock kicked in. She stated, "Well it says here in the book you are Magic Nails". I paused. Cornered. Trapped. Was I in fact a beautician trapped in a posture less body? All these years I had been living a lie, trying to counsel the mentally ill, when I should have been manicuring and pedicuring. Tears welled up. I had to focus.

I stammered back. "No, I'm pretty sure you have the wrong number". She pressed further. "well have ya'll changed". Ya'll? Ya'll? I wasn't about to fall for her southern guile and charm. I said, "look lady, this ain't no salon. Now why don't you just........" Actually I proposed that perhaps her book was outdated, and that perhaps she had a more up-to-date version.

She wasn't biting. She new in her heart of hearts that this was a nail salon, and that I, yes I, Jon who can't wait to watch football this weekend in cut-off shorts and the holiest shirt I can find, am in fact Kevin, the premiere finger and toe nail specialist; trained by none other than Pierre La Petite de La Non Football himself, in the art of Nailistry.

She enquired (probably subscribes to the Enquirer) "what do you mean new book". I caved, beaten and outwitted by a superior intellect I conceded defeat, and told her to drop by at 4. I apologized and said that Kevin was out walking our poodles (I just figured we were dating, I could be wrong), after their nap.