One Foot in the Grave

I really can't stand when people touch my feet. So, unlike most girls, I find pedicures to be pure torture. However, summer inevitably rolls around, and I am forced into the salon to protect the people around me from the horrific sight of my unpedicured toes.  I always wait until the last possible moment when my toenails are starting to grow into my skin and my calluses resemble something you might see on Fred Flinstone’s feet to once again bear the burden of my extra X chromosome and submit to the torturous ritual called a pedicure. 

So, this year, as the weather started to warm and my feet begged me to allow them to make the transition from boots to sandals, I begrudgingly entered the torture chamber and allowed them to touch my feet. As you can imagine, they were not particularly happy to see me.  They quickly disappeared into the back room to gather their tools which I assume consisted of a pair of pliers, a utility knife, and a belt sander.  They talked amongst themselves in Vietnamese in what I assume was their version of rock, paper, scissors to see who the lucky winner would be to go to work on my piggies.  They apparently had a new girl who was just starting. After getting a good look at my feet, they decided this would probably be good practice for her. I, on the other hand, was not so thrilled about having an amateur work on my feet. See, when I do go and get a pedicure I am not one who wants this to be an hour and a half long process while they massage my feet and pick at my toes. I want to be in and out of there in the absolute shortest amount of time possible with perfect toenails that look fantastic for 2 1/2 months because you know that I'm only doing this twice during sandal season. Not having to subject myself to pedicures is one of the very few things that I love about the winter.  

So, they gestured toward a seat that I walked toward as though I was headed for the electric chair and sat down across from a man who was currently getting his eyebrows waxed and I tried not to stare at him while I stuck my feet into the bacteria bin which I knew had probably held thousands of disgusting infected toes. Luckily, the water was scalding hot, so not only was I sure that it had killed any sort of organisms that might be lurking behind, it also peeled off my top layer of skin so the organisms wouldn't have had anything to attach to anyway.

The woman doing my toes offered to do a manicure as well since she was learning and practicing so I reluctantly agreed since my hands didn't look much better than my feet. She told me to sit back and relax and enjoy some TV while she went to work. I looked up at the TV, and in a moment of sheer irony, on comes a commercial for toenail fungus medication. I reached for a magazine instead. 

The new girl started to look distressed pretty quickly, not that I blame her. She started to sweat and said something to one of her coworkers which I told myself was probably a comment about how adorable my feet were and she needed to come and see them right away. In reality, it was more of a plea for help because she was clearly in way over her head.  Over walked the seasoned manicurist who decided to pitch in and help. New girl kept working on my feet and old girl went to work on my hands. She started massaging my hands, which is the only part of this process that I thought I would enjoy.  Well, that was until I realized that my next step would be to the hospital where they would repair my four broken fingers from the deep tissue/tendon/bone massage that she performed.

Meanwhile, on my feet, new girl decided that she was going to try a hot wax treatment on my legs.  It would have been nice if she asked me first, but she just brought the wax over and placed it on my legs before I realized what was happening. Unfortunately I had just shaved my legs prior to this visit in an effort to not look like a complete Neanderthal. Have you ever put hot wax on freshly shaven legs? I would highly advise against it.  Luckily, my feet and legs had started to go numb anyway from her constant prying, filing, and other torturous rituals that she could come up with to punish me. So I turned my attention back to my hands.  When I looked down, I realized that four of my fingers were bleeding from where she cut me while trying to trim my cuticles. Luckily, she dabbed some alcohol on them to get the excess blood off so it wouldn't ruin my French manicure that I was having done. My eyes started to tear up, but I still refused to say anything, because the man across from me still had not complained once about his eyebrows getting waxed. By the way he was now getting his hands and feet done too.  If he could do this, so could I.  I would not be shown up by a man.

Then came my favorite part of the experience...the part where I almost died. I always thought my headstone would read something cool, like “Eaten by a great white shark” or “Slipped and broke her neck while trying to climb on stage at a Chippendale's show,” not “Death by pedicure.”  Again, remember they are working on my hands and feet at the same time in an effort to get me out of their shop as quickly as possible.  The manicure I am receiving requires a UV light to set.  A UV light requires electricity.  My feet are still in the water basin of death when the seasoned manicurist decides the best way to handle this is to place the electric UV light on my lap with both of my hands inside.  I’m sure, in her mind, this is a great solution to getting finished quicker and, at the same time, making it impossible for me to move, squirm, and writhe away from their every move.  Unfortunately, as she turned around to grab something, the light started to slide towards the tub.  Defenseless with my hands inside of the machine and my feet in the bin, my life flashed before my eyes and I yanked my feet out of the water, kicking the new girl in the shoulder in the process.  At the same time, I pulled my hands out of the light sending it crashing down at the manicurist’s feet.  I strung together a slew of words that would have made a sailor blush and they responded with a string of words that I didn’t understand but I can tell you that it didn’t sound like, “I’m sorry for almost electrocuting you.” 

I was a bit shaken and I insisted on a different manicurist who wasn’t a homicidal maniac coming over to finish the job.  I glared at them all while he finished up and then I paid a ridiculous amount of money for my bleeding fingers, water-wrinkled feet, and newfound trauma before stomping out to my car and slamming the door.  How on earth do women enjoy this experience??? 

The logical part of my brain told me that, next year, I should just embrace unpedicured toes and use that money to buy wine and therapy from this year’s experience.  Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain is very small and the vengeful side is large.  So I’ll be back, sadistic salon workers, and I’ll be sure that my feet resemble something out of your worst nightmares next time around….