First Pedicure

Today my sister-in-law and my wife talked me into getting my first pedicure.  They decided to get up early and go treat themselves at the nail salon, and when my brother heard about it, he wanted to go too.  Apparently, he had been coerced into this sort of expedition before and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience.  I was not so sure.

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?