On Mother’s Day, I went with my mother to our local nail salon and minispa to get a pedicure. Now, I’ll be the first person to agree that my feet are not going to be receiving calls from any modeling agencies anytime soon; I run almost everyday, strut around in impractical heels Monday through Friday, and stroll around outside barefoot. If I had to choose between licking my feet or the tires of my car, I’d almost consistently choose my tires.
Because of this, I have to admit to feeling some degree of humiliation when I am forced to de-shoe in front of a complete stranger who is sitting with her face inches from my feet. I am certain that I don’t have the ugliest or most appalling feet ever, but I can’t help but wonder if when the pedicurist is vehemently discussing something in another language with her neighboring coworker, she is actually exclaiming, “MY GOD, these feet are HIDEOUS! It would be easier if I just cut them off entirely.”
When I went with my mother two weekends ago, it was the first pedicure I had gotten in roughly six months, which meant that I was the equivalent of a completely unpruned shrub. The poor woman who was relegated to beautifying my feet did not seem alarmed by the sight of them, but when it came to the part where she had to, um, exfoliate the well-worn bottoms of my feet, she CALLED ANOTHER PEDICURIST OVER TO HELP HER. My worst fears were realized: I have freak feet that belong only next to a bearded lady and a set of Siamese quadruplets.
Once the pedicure was complete and my feet were glowing and gorgeous (read: sub-par by anyone else’s standards), I was escorted to the little waiting area to let my nail polish dry. I had just opened up the latest issue of Cosmo when the same pedicurist approached me and asked if I wanted a manicure. Glancing down at my unkempt and unladylike fingers, I sheepishly declined. “Ohhh,” she said. “How about your eyebrows?”
Ouch.