Saturday, April 6, 2013

4/6/13 The Pedicure Admission

I have a confession to make. 

I have had four professional pedicures in my life and all but one of them were only enjoyable because of the company (okay, and the massage chairs.) I am just not a pedicure girl.

Pedicure #1 was a present, a gift certificate to my own salon, where the owner, Regina, cut and colored my hair and gave me a pedicure and manicure. The massage chair was awesome, soaking my feet in the warm bubbly water and bath salts, and since I'd known Regina and trusted her, it was really nice, to be pampered by someone you can chat with and laugh with.

Pedicure #2 was a treat from Lynne when she first visited me in Colorado and we went to the salon nearest my house. This was my first encounter with that is the typical pedicure salon, in which sweet girls are pointed to our chairs and speak to us haltingly in English and to each other in Vietnamese in ways that make you think of the Seinfeld episode in which Elaine takes Frank Costanza in with her in order to find out what's being said about her.

The prices are, to me, outrageous, for something that I enjoy doing, at home, for myself, for free. And when someone else is messing with my (admittedly overly ticklish) feet, the possibility of some uncomfortable  interactions with the pedicurist is slightly better than 100% odds. But I survived it, and had some very pretty toenails afterwards. 

Pedicure #3 Was with Marci in Sagemont before our 20th class reunion five years ago. That turned into a nightmare when the pedicurist had me bleeding like a stuck pig. The edges of my big toes have to be handled very carefully as they build up calluses but are real fun if you don't cut them away gently. That one hurt. 

Pedicure #4, the last, was on Lynne's last visit. We tried a new shop, that had even better chairs, but there was a weird vibe about the place, with a scowling male pushing the girls around. And what is it about these shops where absolutely awful daytime programming is running on all the flat screens? Inevitably it's either these terrible judge shows or medical advice programs. This time I warned my pedicurist about the bleeders and escape relatively unscathed. But without a friend to keep  me company, those chairs are just not enough appeal to get me to fork over $50 (and tip) and fear kicking the poor girl who tickles my feet or bleeding all over everyone. 

Still, they do turn out pretty... 

 But  in the past three years, it's been just me and my feet and my own instruments of torture. 

And I can make myself bleed less, for nothing!

It's definitely not salon quality, but no one was harmed in the painting of these toes. 


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