Manic Manicure

The average male’s night out begins with a relatively enthusing call from a random friend, an hour or so before nightfall. The approaches vary, but it’ll typically go something like this:

‘What do you feel like doing tonight?’

‘Anything involving alcohol is fine.’

‘Meet you in an hour.’

But apparently, I’ve been living under a rock: there’s an entire world of socialites who operate above the beer and bar system. Saturday night isn’t about consuming as much alcohol as possible before passing out. Preposterous I thought, but the magazine made me follow a social princess around for a day and find out.

Rima and I planned to meet at 10.

‘I’m so sorry, we were out last night. I just woke up, are you still there?’

‘It’s 1.30, of course I’m not there. Just tell me where to meet you.’

‘ABC Achrafieh for coffee in, say, half an hour?’

There’s something to be said about coffee shops that serve booze. A few are adamant about keeping an alcohol-free menu but they know not what they do; waiting for a princess is not fun. The perfectly-permed highness showed just after three.

‘I had to retouch my hair,’ she explained while simultaneously ordering a complicated coffee-based smoothie that I absolutely had to try. ‘And then the girl was late and I panicked, and that’s why I turned off my phone.’

In her world that made sense.

For the uninitiated, hair-retouching is an ancient and noble tradition whereby the Lebanese princess attempts to maintain a master hairdresser’s work for the entire week it takes to visit him again.

‘Tony (Mondalak) does such a fantastic job figuring out what I need, but this girl today almost ruined his work. She really stressed me out.’

There, there. We finished our smoothies and head to her manicure appointment, the one she managed to schedule with her phone off.

‘I don’t know why more guys don’t get manicured,’ she complained, as an attendant waited on her feet. ‘Look at my hands, and look at yours. I don’t think hands were meant to look as bad as yours.’

‘You think I should get them done in pink?’

‘Oh don’t be silly, look if I get them to squeeze you in will you give it a shot?’

Yeah, why not; she pulled her social strings and got me a seat next to her, with my own attractive attendant. I had a lot to say about mani-pedi’s before that day, but I am reborn; by God those women know where to press. If you can bite the heterosexual bullet for half an hour, I highly recommend one. Let’s move along now.

Feeling surprisingly refreshed I heard myself agreeing to help pick out an outfit for the evening.

‘But wait, you told me you had one picked out already?’

‘Well, we haven’t made plans for tonight yet; who knows where we’ll end up? What I’ve chosen might not be appropriate.’

In her world that made sense.

We picked a top, a skirt, a dress, two pairs of shoes (one heeled, one not) and new Fendi sunglasses to go with the red swimsuit.

‘Sunday might be a beach day, and I just want to be prepared. Does the red make me look fat?’

‘No; nothing makes you look fat, you’re underweight – I’ve eaten steaks that weigh more than you.’

‘Thanks hun, you’re the sweetest.’

And she’s fun to look at; happy days. Evening was upon us and her phone rang consistently for ten minutes. We were about to have coffee with her peers who, joy of joys, were already in ABC.  I watched five girls order complicated smoothies that were essentially the same, listened to heated debates concerning appropriate evening-wear and accessorizing, and was called in to moderate an argument about what kind of shoes make a girl seem too available.

‘I don’t think guys look at shoes,’ I suggested. But the sentence had hardly left my mouth before I felt a cold chill run up my spine – as though I had passed wind loudly in a quiet church. ‘But I do of course, and for my part I feel that each of you has made a valid point.’

They didn’t bite, and I was summarily dismissed from any further conversation. Thank heavens.

Five phones began to ring in harmony, and I soon pieced enough to figure out the night’s plans. We were going to Skybar and then we’d ‘see how we feel about White.’

‘Karl, we’ll have to get you some pants.’

Fantastic, half a day and she was already dressing me up.

‘Actually, dad might have something you can wear; he’s also really fat.’

Ah, the delicate social butterfly in action. Half an hour later I was waiting in her TV room while she showered – but only her body; the face and hair were apparently a no-shower zone, because we didn’t want to ruin the makeup and perm. Halfway through Cow&Chicken she called me into the bedroom to help her pick the outfit.

‘Might as well use your since you’re here.’

‘You know, it’s true that I’m writing an article here, but I didn’t suddenly turn gay – despite my perfectly maintained cuticles. Please don’t walk around in a towel.’

‘Stop being a baby and pick a top.’

She changed twice before she was satisfied, accessorized thrice, and changed her mind about the outfit and earrings halfway down the elevator. I waited in the car from that point on.

‘Do I look good?’

I flat out refused to answer that. Her friends had a table in Skybar – always have one apparently. She attempted to explain how the system works, but her dress made it difficult to focus, or drive. Yeah, she looked good; that’s the princess part.

Social interaction in Skybar was minimal; they were all friends yes, but they were there to look at each other. Every once in a while an extended exchange would hint at conversation, but it would always get abruptly cut by some random crude remark from the table.

‘My God you see what she’s wearing?’

‘What she isn’t wearing you mean. Hi Dalia! Missed you Wli!’

The clock struck 1, and it was time for White.

‘They’re not as loose in White,’ a friend informed the party. ‘You think they’ll let Karl in?’

Delicate, subtle, sweet butterflies. They did let me in, and my rear end had hardly touched the white couches when Rima pulled me up to dance.

‘I know you hate dancing, but I don’t want to sit with her.’

Our party had taken on some additional guests, and one of them was an evil she-devil; presumably because she was stunning.

We didn’t dance, so much as boogie. Boogieing means standing in place and wiggling a couple of minor body parts – say, your finger and your head – and not dancing on a dance floor; and I am the boogie master.

In the hour it took me to regain my seat, I’d been filled in on all the gossip this side of the poverty line. Rachel had done her boobs, Maria had botched her lips, Stephany is gaining weight at an alarming rate but no one has the heart to tell her, Rola has become too classy and that new American girl Stacy – the she-devil – was obviously a slut.

‘She’s dating a married man, it’s unbelievable.’

‘But your last boyfriend was married too; I remember having this discussion with you.’

‘That’s so not the same! I wasn’t really serious about him, you know.’

Infallible logic, I love it. It was late, and my head was pounding; and although I’d promised myself I’d remain a neutral observer, I could help but nag about going home.

‘It’s not even 4 yet,’ she complained. Eventually I was able to persuade her to leave, in return for breakfast and a ride to the beach at an ungodly hour that same day. I was tired; tired men say stupid things – but princesses can’t wake up early.

As we dug into some knefeh (my choice) all the way up in Jounieh (her insistence) – they taste better there, it seems – I managed to find common ground with the social elite: they may fuss over life, sleep late and spend more money than a small country, but they too secretly enjoy a $3 breakfast.

And I’ll always have that mani-pedi to look back on.

Written for Time Out Beirut