Shop, shop, beep, beep, shop

It's about multitasking. You shop while you're waiting to be beeped for your spa appointment and then you get on the phone to your broker while you're being buffed. It's New York, darling

In the well-polished world of Manhattan, nails count. New York City is jam-packed with stale little nail salons, where for years women have sat through many a dull lunch hour, paws splayed under cheap plastic fans, with nothing to do. But the Chanel set pouted. They wanted more. And more they got.

Leave it to the tout en noir team at John Barrett, the hair salon perched atop the department store Bergdorf Goodman (still pronounced with a grande dame slur: Berg-daaawf's), to come up with BuffSpa. The brand new luxury manicure/pedicure bar, which tunnels its way out of the store's cosmetics level, is a site where urban birds can multitask. The manicure/pedicure (at US$94) lasts a couple of hours and may well be the best in town. But that's hardly the point.

Clients come to primp, catch up with their friends, conduct business, snack, drink and return phone calls. It's a place where people who can spend hours on their nails can pretend that they're too busy to spend hours on their nails.

BuffSpa is as much about manicures as a high school cafeteria is about lunch. It's not much fun to come alone and most people don't. The individual client can't even get an appointment. She must appear in person to collect a spa beeper that she must wear around the department store. Having been assured that her pager's range reaches all the way up to the store's ninth floor, the client is sent on her way. The beeper will go off when her turn comes up. Beepers aren't usually fastened to skinny Versace belts, but for BuffSpa, one makes an exception.

Appointments are reserved for groups of four or more who are willing to pay US$120 apiece for the polish party menu. This includes a glass of vintage Veuve Cliquot champagne as well as unlimited tastings of poached salmon, cucumber salad and shrimp brushed with brandy chili sauce. Four women can reserve their own private room; 10 to 15 women can have the entire spa to themselves.

When Julia Stiles, the Columbia University freshman-cum-movie starlet decided to throw a little party for her pals, she didn't rent a suite at the W Hotel or book a banquet at the fashionable Nobu restaurant in TriBeCa. She treated her buddies to perfect manicures and pedicures.

Society waif and Vogue fashion writer Plum Sykes recently invited a slew of her social register friends to the salon for a nail party. According to David Kipp, the salon's manager, on more evenings than not the salon is closed for private events. "All the editors at the fashion magazines have had parties here," he said. Other recent hosts have been Queen Latifah, La Femme Nikita's Peta Wilson, and a woman who brought her personal tarot card reader to help usher in her 23rd birthday.

And yes, Kipp conceded with a smirk, people have been known to get drunk. But he wouldn't name names.

The salon doesn't look very much like a salon. The interior is stark white save for lilac-coloured hyacinths. The tiny entrance off the makeup room looks more like a shoe boutique than a nail bar, with its display of pedicure-inspiring open-toed Manolo Blahniks. The interior is divided into two parts: the main room, with a long table that allows for five simultaneous manicures, and one private room that is home to four squishy, white leather pedicure thrones. Each pedicure station features a stone-filled basin, an issue of Vogue and a white telephone.

On a recent visit, a reedy lawyer in her late thirties had her MCM organizer by her side and made non-stop work-related phone calls. When she was done, she had caught up with the day's news, conducted business and arranged to meet a client for tea at the Plaza later that afternoon.

Across the way sat a stately looking woman in her late fifties, wearing a beige Max Mara suit, calling in stock orders on the phone while having her toenails painted. Her clear plastic Chanel flats lay sloppily on the floor. An oversized towel covered her lap. When her pedicure was completed, two assistants crouched at her ankles, and there was a little flurry of activity. When the woman stood up, her slacks were gathered around her ankles. Her blazer barely covered her underwear. It became clear that she had been trading stocks trouserless. She must have feared sullying her cream-coloured threads.

Her departure signalled the moment to beep two women who had left for the perfume counter. Within a couple of minutes, they were in the room, beeperless, bearing two Bergdorf shopping bags. Soon enough their calves were bared and the work began.

One of the women looked a little like Isabella Rossellini. The other was a baby-faced brunette who scrunched her nose endearingly in response to her friend's comments. For a while they spoke about a 39-year-old man who is dating a 23-year-old woman.

"Sixteen years isn't that big a difference," said Rossellini, "but if she was dating somebody 16 years younger, he'd be five."

They both shook their heads.

Rossellini looked pensive. She started to giggle. "Would you want your husband to gain 10 pounds if you could lose 10 pounds?"

"Yes!" her companion replied instantly, relishing the thought.

The two were feeling restless and decided to let their toes dry while they visited Bergdorf's makeup counters in open-toed paper slippers.

Somewhere above, two ladies were about to be beeped.

by Lauren Mechling   National Post