If eyes are the windows to the soul, the feet must be the smelly, damp cellar.
I used to take the time (and cash) to treat my feet to a pedicure twice a month. It’s like airing out that musty cellar and removing the mold. Then, to save money, I cut back to once every three weeks–and now it’s once a month–or less. So when I finally take the time to get a pedicure, I’d better enjoy it, dammit!
(Yep. Time for a trim.)
Let’s discuss my experience this past Saturday. I had some free time and a little extra moola, so I went to my local nail joint to get my bunions rubbed. I was ready to be pampered, lotioned, scraped and polished.
Right off the bat, I was pissed off. My nail technician plunked me in some lukewarm water and proceeded to talk on her cellphone, yelling at someone about her Internet service. (At least I think that’s what she was saying. She was speaking Vietnamese.) This continued while she cut my toenails back BELOW my skin and ripped the s*** out of my cuticles. Perhaps she thought I was her Internet provider.
Then she moved my massage chair so far back that I kept sliding toward the foot bath. After 20 minutes of trying not to fall off the chair (and with my butt bones screaming) I pushed myself back up–only to have her yell at me because she said my legs were too long. (?) Well, excuuuuuuuse me. Next time I’ll leave my legs at home and just bring my feet.
As she scraped the skin off my feet, with what is probably an illegal torture device, she tried to sell me an expensive line of foot cream because I obviously had a re-creation of the Grand Canyon in the cracks of my heels. Maybe I should sell burro rides down the canyons of my soles.
When my pedicure was over, I carefully stomped out of the nail salon and drove home fuming. By the time I walked in the door, 6 of my 10 toenails had been smudged.
(Ain’t my toes purty?)
Moral of this story: Find a nail salon where workers are not allowed to talk on their cell phones while working with customers. (My toes STILL hurt.) That really should be a no-brainer.