One of the activities I had planned for my birthday last Friday was a visit to the salon for a mani/pedi. I’ve only had a handful of them in my life and all but one of those were with Ken we lived in LA. He loved to rock some nail polish and–man, how he rocked it. Ken had a big “rock star” vibe that was so easy for him to tap into. His personal style was unique, inventive and fearless. By our first anniversary a little of that had rubbed off on me so I boldly painted my nails to wear on our planned night out to celebrate one year together. It felt decadent and freeing. And he loved it.

Toward the end of his life Ken was all about the nail bling. He received innumerable, loving manicures and pedicures from family and friends. When I took him out in his wheel chair through the neighborhood, many times we ended up at the CVS picking out some new colors or decals to try. He made getting a manicure somehow manly–and something that wasn’t a gender bending issue. I loved that: his freedom of thought and how he always challenged convention. And he was so handsome and kind and charming, he never faced any opposition.

For his soiree last year, I invited anyone who wanted to bling out their nails as a fun tribute to him. My sister-in-law Katie and my close pal Mindy and I headed to a salon and got the full monty for the occasion:

So after I took myself to brunch for my birthday this year I walked up the street to a salon I’ve seen a billion times but had never gone to. But it was convenient and got some decent Yelp reviews. After enjoying the pedicure and foot massage, I seated myself at the manicure station and pulled out the nail polish and clear coat (I soaked up a lot of manicure knowledge from Ken and his eager manicurists). The woman–50ish Russian–looked confused. “I want to use this color,” I said, holding up the bottle of Revlon “Ocean.” I had to repeat myself three times before she looked at me incredulously, eyes bulging “You want color on your nails?” It annoyed me asked me that. Clearly, that is what I wanted and was perfectly willing to pay for.

“I could go somewhere else. And tip someone else.” I wasn’t going to be shamed about something so ridiculous on my birthday. It’s her job to paint nails, not evaluate reasons for doing so.

She dutifully pressed on and did a great job. “Oh my God,” she whispered gravely as she applied the first brush strokes of the blue/green metallic polish. Along the way she kept probing me. “You go to some kind of party?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied. I mean, really?

After that, she managed to somehow infer I was going to a costume party and asked me what outfit I was going to wear. “Acid washed jeans and a Members Only jacket,” I offered. She nodded knowingly–like this ensemble really seemed to pull it all together for her.

Ken would have enjoyed the exchange, and I have no doubt he would have improvised a much more elaborate story for her to think about, but I was pretty proud of myself by the time I left.

For my final birthday gift I went to the beach with my buddy Beth and her little boy Ian. While they played in the water, I soaked up the sun, people watched, and snapped this pic of my “beach blanket blingo.”

Now when I look at my fingers as I type on my Mac–or play with Kallie–they make me really happy, and I think of Ken.

They remind me of his whimsy–and of mine.