I spent a big chunk of Mother's Day with my mom this year. You know--like a good daughter! We had a great time shopping for beads at Shipwreck, grabbed some lunch, and then we were scheduled for pedicures.
This is where it got dicey.
Approaching the salon, I felt like I was approaching a life-sized bee hive. or an ant hill. Something with a lot of chaos and commotion. Seriously--have you ever tried to get within twenty yards of a salon on Mother's Day? Don't. Consider yourself warned.
I opened the door and was slapped in the face by a wall of acetone. I breathed deep and relaxed a little. Happiness is. Give me a break! It's been a long time since I had a pedicure!
We went in. Lining the left side of the long, narrow shop were ten massage chairs for pedicures. You know the type... they look like they're capable of just about everything, including launching occupants into the next stratosphere. Lining the right, I spotted a series of lamps, brushes and masked nail techs. Swine flu? Nah--they're just trying to keep out some of the fumes, I s'pose.
As instructed, we picked our colors and then followed commands to "sit here" and "there."
Sinking into my massage chair, I punched a series of buttons only to discover that one button worked. It simply said "auto" and it lead to a rotating chorus of pulses, vibrations and kneads. Whatever. I wasn't going to argue.
I plunged my feet into the basin below me. Lukewarm water, probably a result of a few too many pedi's for the day. My feet soaked and I leaned back, waiting for the next available person to begin clipping, filing and primping my ten little piggies.
When she sat down, I knew she was going to give me a run for my money. She looked... rough... no-nonsense, and certainly not gentle.
My toes curled.
Things were fine in the beginning. I focused on my back-massaging chair and conversation with my mom and the lady in the neighboring chair. But then. Oh, then. She dug out those vicious nail clippers... the kind that look more like pliers than clippers??
She shook her head and I heard a quiet 'tsk, tsk' as she dug deeper and deeper into my nail bed. It became quite obvious that I had, apparently, offended her with my lack of attention to details concerning my southern most extremities.
As she snipped, clipped and dipped my feet, I rested my head back in the chair and waited for the end. I knew she couldn't dig forever, and certainly, she had to be close to done, right? I wondered, 'do I even have any nail left??'
My reprieve came--she was done! I sighed as she dipped my smooth feet into little bags of hot paraffin wax... this is the reason for a pedicure. The nice part. Minutes later, I watched as she artfully painted white stripes at the ends of my nails, creating the 'french manicured' look. My favorite.
With that, she was done. I wriggled impatiently as my nails dried. Is there anyone on the planet who likes those little wedges they cram between your toes? *shudder*
Slipping my flip and my flop onto their respective feet, and with a smack of my right calf, as if to say 'get out of my chair!' she uttered four little words... "all done, thank youuuu!"
We were done. I double checked--yep, still ten toes with ten nails.
Something happens when you walk out the door and the acetone permeated air clears itself from your nose. You look down, see your twinkling toes, and resolve to go back. Soon. So your toes always look this fabulous.
Pedicures. Like a narcotic.