Nancy walked by my bare feet recently and stared in disbelief.
“You need a pedicure,’ she said.
“Not me,” I countered. “I’m a football-watching kind of guy.”
“No, really, you’ll like it. Go to Happy Nails just down the street and ask for a basic pedicure.”
Actually, the idea somewhat appealed to me since cutting my toenails recently has required a supreme effort. I am forced to crouch in positions only attainable by Circ-du-Soleil acrobats in order to capture the stubborn nails from my little toes and I have been using garden shears on my big toes.
So, I strapped on my man purse and headed for Happy Nails. I was hoping to see a few men inside to bolster my fading sense of masculinity, but I was surrounded by a roomful of mostly older women and somewhat younger ladies who were still learning English.
The manager greeted me at the counter and made me sign a consent form and a next of kin disclaimer, which caused a bit of concern.
What are they going to do to my poor feet?
I was soon to find out.
First, they put your feet in a tub of hot water filled with chemicals strong enough to handle undisclosed cases of the Bubonic Plague. I guess soaking also helped soften my toenails which have the general consistency of sheet metal.
“Put your right foot up here,” said Mani (that was her name) and that was my best interpretation of what she actually said.
She deftly trimmed my nails, then the torture began. She took out something that looked like a tool that belonged to my dentist and began digging along the edge of all my toenails. Then she got out a piece of commercial grade sandpaper and began sanding away some 40 years of dead skin and toe jam from the tops of my feet. Next, she did the same to the soles of my tender feet which sent me into hysterics. My shrieks of laughter – it tickled intensely – made all the foot torturers look up from their work and caused most of the older women to gaze my way in confusion.
I stifled my reactions as best I could, but I would have confessed to any crime I was accused of if only she stopped. It was as effective as water boarding. Then I let out a mournful shudder, realizing I had two feet, and the left one was about to get the same treatment.
Finally, the torture ended, and my now-tender feet were wrapped in hot towels, and I figured I would live.
I gave Mani a nice tip – basically for ending the agonizing procedure – and left Happy Nails with the feeling that I now had somebody else’s feet.
Overall, it really wasn’t such a terrible experience and I suppose, in time, I will get used to the pink nail polish with the little white dots.
