I’m sure that isn’t an alien a concept for you as it is for me and that is entirely acceptable. You see, I grew up in a house with a no-nonsense mother, a manly father, and an even manlier brother. Anyway, I grew up thinking that all I really needed from the salon are the periodical haircuts I needed whenever my mother was too busy to cut my hair herself.
Back in the salon, my right foot was propped up on the attendant’s lap as she aggressively but gently scrubbed my foot. I could hear my callouses screaming in absolute horror as they fell, one by one, on the attendant’s towel and apron. The attendant seemed to have a personal vendetta against the gunk on my feet, like they – the gunk – had gone to her house the night before and gunned down her family.
I paused from watching her lather a cream on my feet and calves and studied my surroundings. I sat on a plush chair with a print design that suggested royalty. Each chair had a matching footstool in the same upholstery and was separated from the other chairs by thin, lacy curtains.
Mabie would love this place.
Meanwhile, the attendant gave my feet another massage, popping my toes as she went. ‘It feels quite nice actually,’ I thought as my reputation screamed in sheer agony at the back of my head. It’s actually too late to worry about my rep, as the attendant had started using small, sharp implements on my toes. I can’t bring myself to watch. There are a lot of things that I am deathly afraid of, and I discovered, while sitting in that cozy chair, that pedicures are one of them.
While I typed on my phone, another attendant came along and took one look at me and said, “Pati kamay, ma’am?” (The hands too?) I shook my head vigorously.
I have to draw the line somewhere right?