Freddy Krueger Reviews The Manicure Place Near Elm Street

One, two, Freddy’s coming for you, Trendy Nailz. I visited this place last Friday, and the service was horrifying and not in a deathly good way. For one, they did not file my nail blades into a proper sharp point that could rip through enough layers of abdomen, and two, the polish in the color “Fresh Flesh” chipped after just one day.

I’m warning you all… stay far away from this shady place.

I shouldn’t have to opt for the extra strong gel manicure just to make sure my nails would look fabulous through all of Nancy’s friend’s killings. Could you believe my shock when the polish on my pinkie chipped instantly after I had sliced through only four layers of plush mattress and steel coil–BEFORE even getting my claws into Tina Gray? I couldn’t even focus on properly swinging her into the ceiling because I was regretting not getting the powder.

I swear they are using old bottles. Don’t lie to Freddy.

They also water down the adhesives. Yes, I was supposed to keep my nail tips away from water for two hours, but I just couldn’t wait to get my hands on Nancy. It’s not my fault in order to reach her, I had to shove my arm up through the wet, corrosive drain. Still, my whole forefinger tip should not have fallen off as I ran my hand through the guts of Ron Grady even after I shoved my hand through the door.

Manicures should hold up through these normal, everyday tasks.

The techs also could have paid better attention while exfoliating my palms instead of yammering to themselves about how much I looked like some guy they couldn’t exactly put a finger on. I swear they made me so uncomfortable, they were definitely rushing through the massage treatment. It’s like they didn’t even want to touch my long blades. Or draw my requested microscopic nail art: newspaper clippings of my victims on my middle finger.

Of course, I wasn’t going to let them get away with this kind of shitty service, so I kept calling them, and it appears that they have disconnected their phones. So I returned to the scene of the nail grooming crime to finish the job and said: “I need you. We got special work to do here, you and me, with these coffin tips.” And can you believe the nerve of them? They wanted to charge me five dollars to fix their own dreadful work. I refuse to be the victim of such bad customer service.

Mothers of Elm Street should be burning this place down.

When they finally agreed to fix it after I threatened to haunt their social media, they were awfully rough on my cuticles. Then, the nail tech had the nerve to scream when I appeared to her telepathically after she closed her eyes for more than a moment. Chill, lady. I was just asking if they sanitized the tools. I swear she was using the salon’s nasty clipper instead of the ones I’d brought myself. This place is filthier than the jail cell where I hung Rod Lane.

I’ve killed dozens of people but even I can’t kill fungus.

After a chilling encounter with the store manager, who wanted to call the cops, I ran out — and, yes, if I’m being honest — the repair held up through the killings of Glen Lantz and Marge Thompson. But then I noticed the skin on my hands was bright red. I swear this is a reaction from your cheap lotions and not from being lit on fire. My skin was literally peeling off. And I paid extra for the softening paraffin treatment.

Stay away, people. Stay away. This place is the real nightmare on Elm Street.

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