Me getting a pedicure. (picture of De-Fen Yao from China thanks to a good hearted reader. I do not believe it is photoshopped. My friend Julia said De-Fen has a head the size of a washing machine, and I believe it.)
It's June. And if you're the graduate of a women's college and in your mid-20's (and Jewish), that means it's wedding time. This weekend is the second wedding I'm attending in June, and I'm travelling up to Boston to reunite with many girls I haven't seen in years. This is code for "Look your best."
I've got the outfit all planned out. Going with a navy gown that I had shortened to be more "tea-lengthy", a navy bolero that screams Upper East Side rodeo, and gold sandals. And what outfit would be complete without talons for feet. Every outfit, that's what. Which is why I spent my coveted lunch hour at the SAH-lon, getting my feet primped and clipped for my wedding sandal debut.
I am always very humble at the nail salon. Just the idea that I'm making someone touch my feet, even for money, leaves me with cuticle blood on my hands. It seems wrong. So I counter-balance the foot touching by acting like Young Chiyo from Memoirs of a Geisha, bowing low, saying thank you every 5 seconds, avoiding eye contact, and serving tea. This salon was on the second floor, a common occurrence in a space-deprived city. I climbed the stairs and waited a good 20 minutes until my turn was up.
"Hmm... I think I can squeeze my pedi in between steeping lessons and my two o'clock 'sensual dance' hour."
The first thing I do when sitting in the futuristic leather massage chair growing out of a bucket is inspect the other feet, to rank how nasty mine are. The woman next to me had short, chubby tan feet with tiny toenails. The woman next to her's were real veiny, with opaque white nails (before polish.) In comparison, mine really weren't so bad... sure, they vaguely resemble a chitlin, and yes, my pinky toenails have somehow ceased to exist, but the nailbeds themselves were nicely shaped. No, really, my feet were quite nice in comparison.
Ladylike, in fact.
Then I saw my assigned pedicurist snapping on two rubber gloves as if I were about to get a cavity search. Gloves, eh? I glanced at the other two women... no gloves. Were my chitlins that unsavory? Boo.
On second thought, maybe they were.
I'll spare you the declawing process, but I chose I loverly light coral color to compliment the navy dress. I looked at my watch, and saw that I only had 5 minutes left before my lunch hour was over. Gah! No time to dry. Pay, tip (very generously to assuage more guilt) and run. Money went flying as I swung open the door, and then went to open the door leading to the staircase.
Instead, I found that I literally ran into a broom closet. Like in the cartoons. Luckily, 8,000 basketballs didn't fall on my head. No time, no time! I booked it down the stairs, emerged into daylight, and tried to run without ruining my polish.
Even these two were like "Yoooouuuuu schmuck."
End of story? It took me 30 minutes before I fucked the polish up and had to remove all of it. I just made a Dr.'s appointment to have my blood tested for the Hulk gene.
Looks like I'll have to wear my bird shoes again...