I
was not very keen on the idea of some stranger touching my feet, nor on the
idea of sporting a nail color every time I wear flip-flops. That was the limit of my knowledge of
pedicures…someone touches your feet, you get your nails painted. I was in for a big surprise.
My
wife decided that my first experience should be all out, so she opted for the
deluxe package for me. They started by putting
my feet in a hot, whirlpool bath to clean, soften, and massage them. I might have enjoyed this more, if I wasn’t
so apprehensive about what was possibly coming next. Of course, my wife wouldn’t tell me, because
she finds it funny to surprise me, despite the fact that I don’t enjoy things,
because I have too much anxiety about the unknown.
Well,
what happened next was what I like to call the “foot torture” portion of the
pedicure. The pedicurist, Hana was her
name, trimmed my nails and cuticles. Not
too bad. I could handle that. But this was just the beginning; a way to
lull me into complacency…to drop my defenses…before the real torture began. And it began with a heel scraper.
A
heel scraper, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular torture
implement, is about the size of a hair brush.
But instead of being covered with soft bristles, it looks like a cheese grater
instead. It works like a cheese grater
too, as she scraped it back and forth over the toughened skin of my heel, peeling
off layer after layer, until I was sure I would have no foot left to stand on.
But
I only had but a second to think about this, because she immediately pulled out
some sort of hardened sponge-like thing, which felt like it was made out of
rock and glass, and started rubbing it on the callus on the side of my big toe. My foot was spasming from both the nerve-endings
firing with every subsequent back-and-forth movement and from it actually tickling
a little.
Sensing
that I was about to break and spill everything to her about the contents of the
NOC list (Mission Impossible reference), the truth about the Kennedy assassination,
and every MI6 secret I knew; she eased off the torture a little and pulled out
an only slightly-softer sponge-like thing and scoured the entire bottom of my
foot. By this point, I was grasping the
armrests of the chair in a white-knuckled grip to keep from ripping my
increasingly-ticklish foot out of her rubber hands.
Soon
the torture was over, and she finished off stage one by putting some milky
white oil on my nails and giving them a nice buff and polish. In comparison, this was mild and highly tolerable.
Which
leads us to what I like to call the “hot recovery” portion of the pedicure. Although I wasn’t to know this yet. At this point, I was still waiting for the
other shoe (or foot in this case) to drop.
While
my poor, tortured feet once again soaked in the warm, massaging basin; Hana the
Tormenter went off to get some orange, gritty-looking cream substance. She proceeded to smear this all over my
calves and then give me a quite-nice leg massage. The gritty beads made my skin feel fresh and
alive as she kneaded them into my tense muscles. I started to relax a little (only a little)
for the first time.
When
that was done, she wrapped hot towels around my legs, which felt heavenly on my
newly-exposed skin. The heat was in
sharp contrast to the cool air that had been skimming across my skin only
moments before, and the change sent my muscles into an exhilarating sensation
that ended in a long sigh.
While
I mummified in my hot towels, Hana the Wonderful slid my feet into baggies of
hot, blue, waxy goo. And that was
it. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and
thought, “This is the life.” The memories
of the previous torture faded away as I lay there soaking up the soothing warmth.
But
Hana the Goddess had one more trick up her sleeve, as she rolled up with a
basket of steaming black rocks. She unwrapped
my legs and proceeded to rub these rocks up and down my legs, pressing them
into my flesh for but a moment and then sliding them to the next spot. Over and over again, across every inch. When it ended way too quickly, I opened my
eyes and looked at her in question, “Is that it?” She smiled, pulled off the now waxy casts of
my feet in baggies, and proceeded to rub more rocks along the soles.
I
can definitely say that having been left to my own devices, that I would never
have willingly subjected myself to this experience. Even having gone through it once, I’m not sure
that I would do it again. But I can say
that I’d be less likely to reject an invitation and would have less anxiety
about the unknown. I would instead just
try to go with the flow and look forward to the end result.
And
the color I decided on for my nails? None
at all, I’m afraid. I mean why mess with
perfection, right?
