So, in preparation for the upcoming trip to Buffalo, but more out of concern that my feet were beginning to look like something found in nightmares only truly crazy people have, I went to a nail salon today to have (horror of horrors) a pedicure, and perhaps some light facial waxing to tame the two caterpillars that have recently taken up residence where my eyebrows ought to be.
Some of you might remember me doing this a year and a half ago, wherein I realized I was the Scourge of Tiny Asian Women (if you don't, go read the tale, I'll wait). I felt soundly punished for daring to have bad feet but, despite my shame at the encounter and hesitant promises to the girl who took care of my feet, failed to wear "real" shoes. I was soon running around in nothing but sandals, and even then that was if you caught me on a good day. Most of the time, I'm barefoot. If you've visited my house, or had me visit yours, you know this. The first thing to come off is the shoes.
I went into this experience knowing full well that I had transgressed, sinned mightily against the foot gods. I knew there would be punishment before my sins were washed away, and I was prepared to take it like a strong woman. By I was prepared, I mean I had two shots of vodka in the parking lot and had fashioned a rather cunning shiv, made from a chopstick, if the previous incident were to be repeated. I would tolerate no shaming grocery bags on my feet! No longer would I accept the horror-stricken glances 'twixt nail technicians.
Thus galvanized, I swaggered across the rainy lot and into the nail salon. A Jackie Chan movie was playing on the tv against the far wall, and the two technicians there were both busy working on the other two clients. I signed in, fingering the chopstick-shiv in my pocket to ensure I had it readily available should the need arise. After a few minutes of waiting, one of them came up, checked what I'd signed in for, and began filling a spa chair's tub with warm water. Now, whether it was on purpose or happenstance, I do not know, but this spa chair was the one all the way at the back of their store, while a good six chairs sat readily available near the front. The lady motioned me forward, indicating by patting the seat twice that I was to sit and relax while they finished up.
I chose not to quibble over chair placement - I was ashamed of my feet, make no mistake. Allowing me somewhere to hide my shame while still serving me was perfectly acceptable. So I slid off my ratty black sandals, scooched into the chair, and dipped my feet into pleasantly warm water. A touch of a button, and the massage was going on the chair while I opened my book and began to read. After a few more minutes, the original woman returned, and began working on my feet.
It was a pleasant encounter throughout. I alerted her to my need of callous remover, and she worked quickly but efficiently, with a tiny smile on her face the entire time. While it was happening, I assumed the smile was because of her generally pleasant demeanor and kind attitude towards customers in orthopedic distress. No, as it turns out, she knew what was waiting for me in the waxing room. As she finished her painting of my toenails (this time a vibrant purple that looks like something the Joker might want to make love to), she slid the tiny little foot liners onto my feet. And here is where she marked me for revenge, on behalf of all Tiny Asian Women (or TAW) who have to deal with hairy, screwed up, calloused white feet.
Onto the left foot went a pepto-bismol pink slipper, and on the right foot a mint green slipper. Everyone else received slippers the same color, a matching set. I knew this, because I had watched as the spa chairs near the front were filled with women who obviously have nothing else to do with their afternoons than get pedicures and talk on their cell phones. But no, I came away with two different colored slippers. It was the pedicurist's version of the Kiss of Death.
Up came the armrest, and out of the seat I slid, duck-stepping my way to the waxing room she pointed out, to lay down on the chair/table. I had always had a vague sense of unease when I went onto these tables, and suddenly, as I lay there, hair falling back from my undefended face, I knew why. They were the exact same chairs that are in the gynecologist's office, right down to the paper covering and awkward stirrups for the feet. I should have marked well this sudden insight, but the shots of vodka had fuzzed my brain, and I was riding high on the supposed success of the day. I hummed a jaunty little tune to myself as I waited, though it began to get a little nervous as I lay on the table, for who knows how long, with no other human presence.
At last she entered, the TAW who would be plucking and shaping my eyebrows. At her request, I closed my eyes, and she began slathering hot (and I do mean HOT) wax all over my face. Above & below my eyebrows, my chin, my upper lip, the sides of my face ... a tiny glob even entered my right nostril. But I sat quietly through it, allowed the TAW to pat on small strips of cloth. And then, only then, did I begin to realize the evil that lurked within her heart.
For she tapped me on the shoulder, and said, in perhaps the softest and sweetest voice ever, "Okay. Onna thwee, I pull. Okay? You okay wit dat? Onna thwee, I pull. Okay?" I nodded my head, and braced. She began to speak, her fingertips already grasping the edge of the cloth. "Ooooone... Twoooooo... RIIIIIIIIIIP!" I yelped, not expecting it right then, and jumped on the table. A heinously sweet giggle was heard. "That way you no tense, you no tense. You be relax when I pull, it better that way. But this time, I pwomise, on thwee." I didn't know whether to believe her, but perhaps she just had a whimsical side. I murmured, "Alright, I'm ready..." And braced myself, convinced that there was more here than a mere whimsy.
I was right. She never pulled when she said she would. Sometimes she would tug-tug-tug before ripping, sometimes it was a straight rip. Each one was accompanied by a giggle, and her poking me in the shoulder to open my eyes so she could show me how much hair she'd ripped out this time. It was starting to get old. But my face isn't that big, and despite her insistence on taming every stray hair, I eventually was able to sit up and wash the residue from my face, patting it dry with a towel she handed me.
And this is when it happened - when I realized that no matter what, the TAWs of the world will never believe I have a boyfriend. I stood before the sink, and the woman came up, and patted - I kid you not, PATTED - the side of my left breast, and said, "You need go gym. You pretty now. You lose forty pound, you be haaaaaawt." I looked askance at the woman, not for the least because her hand was STILL RESTING ON MY BREAST!
Obviously, she misunderstood the confusion in my eye. She felt the need to then reach around, and pat my stomach pooch. "This! You lose this! This forty pound, you lose this, you be haaaaawt. You get boyfriend then!"
Holy SHIT! Was this the same woman from August of last year?! Could it be? But ... but ... I was wearing all new clothing! And I'd cut my hair differently. No, no, this couldn't... I took a closer look, as the TAW thankfully removed her hand from my stomach pooch. No, the one from last year had definitely been older.
Timidly, I came back with what I realized would have to be my standard response whenever I went to a nail salon. "But ... but I have a boyfriend. He's a very nice man..."
Again, that look of disbelief. Surely I couldn't be serious. There was no way I had a boyfriend. Not with the damaged feet, untamed hair growth, and forty pounds of ugly hanging on me.
"No, you get boyfriend when you lose this." A quick pat of the stomach, then thank god, she removed her hand. "And you need take care of you! No more eyebrow like dese!" She pulled up the strips of paper she'd ripped off my face, waving them and their hair at me. "And you come in tomorrow, I wax bikini for you, make you all pretty for when you get boyfriend."
Whoa whoa whoa! I can understand drumming up repeat business, but this was a helluva method to use! I shook my head frantically as my mouth took over at a healthy fraction of the speed of light. "No! No no no no no no! I don't - no - wax doesn't go there. Oh no. Absolutely not. In fact, um, I think ... Um... I need to go!"
But the TAW was blocking the door! She knew I was spooked but polite, and she knew so long as she blocked the door, she had me at her mercy. She reached into her pocket, and for a second, I was terrified she was going to pull out a little paper gown and tell me to get into it and prepare for pain as I had never known before. Instead, she pulled out a referral card to the gym down the road.
"Okay, then you go here. Go join this gym. You lose forty pound, you look hawt, then we wax your bikini, you be pretty lady. Thank you! Have nice day!"
And with a final pat to my left breast, she turned and walked out the door. By the time I'd composed myself and exited the room, she was nowhere to be seen. I meekly paid my bill and left a tip, and slunk into the parking lot, only remembering the chopstick-shiv when I tried to unlock my car with it.
But I think I'll go back. My feet look cute and they didn't use bags to cover them.
