Ok, so i realize that manis and pedis are all part of the yuppie lifestyle. In fact, there are likely young'uns who have never known a land without a nail salon on every corner. However, i'm still not sold! i go... but unwillingly and at the very last minute. i want to wear sandals and i don't want onlookers to gape at my horribly disfigured (uh, unpainted) toenails... so, i go.

Monday night, a weary, droopy-eyed consumer, i decide to try a new salon up the street. i'm talking myself into it the whole way home. i walk in. Oooo--fancy! Massage chairs with large spa tubs are separated by privacy curtains. The colors are serene greens and comforting whites. Are your eyes are getting droopier? Mine were ready for a little nap.

A kind sir propped me up in a massage chair, set it to high and away i went. Well really, i was right there, feet bathing in a deliciously warm jacuzzi of my very own. Then, he tapped the foot pad to indicate i was to put my feet up. One, he tapped at me... really... let's use our words today... and two, i'm always humiliated to have someone else work on my dirty feet. Yes, i know they are good at it, which is why i go (plus, when i paint my toenails, it's more like a toe painting... disgraceful for a girl, i know). But did he really have to take affront to the calluses on my feet... they have been there since i can remember and really, are great for when i want to go traipsing around outside without shoes. i'm not a girly, girl so i have callousy feet--not a crime people!

Anyways, he takes his job of ridding my soles of all hardness seriously. First. he applies magical gel to them to soften them up *heh - good luck* and walks off to talk with his friends in the back. i can hear them laughing and i'm just sure they are laughing about my horrible feet.
"Seriously," i tell myself. "i'm sure they see all kinds of gnarly feet. Yours aren't that bad."
"Whatever," i reply back.

He comes back with an extra scratchy tool that looks like a cheese grater. By the time he gets going on my heel, i'm twisting in the chair and gritting my teeth. So, i try a weak "i don't think they come off." But he replies, "They'll come off," and scrubs harder. How is this in any way enjoyable? I'm humiliated from asking someone to bathe and massage my feet, i'm writhing in the now, uncomfortable massage chair (which by the way, had the seat that also massages, but really just squeezes the heck out of your thighs and butt. NOT comfortable!), and listening to the sorority girl talk the ear off of the lady working on her feet who can't understand a word she's saying. Her boyfriend's there also getting his feet done. Really, what happened to manly men who drink whisky and tear their toenails off with their teeth (*chuckle* no, not that part, but the whisky drinking outside of the nail salon would be fine.)

Back to my drama... The guy is cleaning my cuticles with a vengeance. He nicks the heck out of my big toe cuticle -- and shows NO remorse. My own fault for having them out of order in the first place! In fact, i think he took a souvenir to show all his salon friends a chunk of the pasty girl's wicked (not wicked good) feet. Thought it was ok, but checked it out tonight and there's a huge scab. Should not have tipped that man! Tara, remind me to tell you who's chair not to sit in should you patronize this establishment, as good, stylish girls should.

In the end, feet are back to yuppie standards and i can safely don sandals again. Happy to report this time i did not go with black polish, but a nice, demure pink. Gotta trick all those poor souls on the new project i've just taken on! *evil snicker*

Bonnie out... May your pedi experiences be so much better than mine.