Oh, did I veer off topic again…returning to my feet soaking in a warm bath at the present time. For now, I am going to enjoy every penny of the $30 I am spending and put my iPad down. I will close my eyes and pretend that someone else is massaging my legs and feet with a hot stone, not the barely legal non-English speaking woman (better than the person next to me who is being serviced by a man who she would never let touch any part of her otherwise). Today must be my lucky day, because usually it is me who has the pleasure of his hands on my legs and then I have to close my eyes really tightly. Maybe this is a new business model, young male models giving pedicures. In that case, I would be willing to pay more than $30. The “happy ending” in both cases would be my rejuvenated toes, but the process would be far more enjoyable in my imaginary salon. If salons charge more for the top hair stylists, then the same should hold true for the feet. In defense of the technicians I also think you should have to pay more if the client has particularly unsavory feet (I believe that this situation had something to do with the little “situation” that occurs later in this post), this system benefits both sides of the equation. So I’ll be back with you in a little while as I drift off to heaven from my knees down.
Back at home, can’t type during the hand portion of the day, but my hands now look fabulous on the keyboard. No worries about a bump or a smudge, I pay for the extended warranty of the gel manicure (another $30) but so worth it, these nails will look salon fresh until they soak it off with something like paint thinner in 2 weeks. Here I sit, happy and polished, 2 hours left to write and post, make a quick visit to wish my 4-year old niece a happy birthday (and deliver her new Missoni Target dress) and get ready for an evening party. Should be plenty of time if I don’t encounter any wardrobe dilemmas, but I’m feeling confident about the outfit in my head.
Today at Grace Nails was, as usual, a longer than expected adventure. I’m not complaining, if I’m committed to an afternoon of pampering I don’t want it to be rushed, and they don’t disappoint. The pedi-part involves the usual scrubbing, filing and polishing and they add what seems to be some form of Asian reflexology (I am guessing this from the large poster of the foot in front of me carefully noting which parts of my feet correspond to which parts of the rest of me. I figure that at this point my kidneys, my lungs and my small intestine are in good shape, hope she didn’t spend too much time working the gallbladder spot (don’t have one), but maybe she could tell (I’m sure there is some formal training involved). The final step is the hot stone rub, and then hot wax is applied directly to my currently baby soft heel. When it’s time to leave the reclining comfort of my lounger (why can’t I just rest there a little longer?) and give some attention to my fingers I am still a little groggy. The hands are an involved process; if you want a manicure that lasts 2 weeks you have to be willing to do the time. Each layer has to be baked on under the UV light, takes a while but I can search for my keys and money immediately after and my new polish is hard as a rock. The bonus after any manicure, and more than likely the reason this little place is so popular, is the wax hand treatment at the finish. Each client is taken to the wax trough and dipped multiple times in the sweet-smelling (and especially scalding today) hot pink liquid, when you are 3 or 4 layers deep or if you scream in pain, each paraffin covered hand is bound with saran wrap and covered in a hot towel. When you return with your lady boxer hands back to your station a large hot damp towel wrapped in a plastic bag (I think they know better that to put anything wet near the hair of any of these ladies) is placed on your shoulders and for ten glorious minutes (might be 5, but feels like 10) your shoulders, arms, and neck are kneaded and pounded back to life. This little lady has some strong hands and again I am thankful that it is not one of her male colleagues getting awfully close to parts I would not want them near (remember if your arms are at your side and there is massaging happening, it’s possible that you could “accidentally” bump into a non-arm zone – I know this because it has happened, especially in tank top season).I send her mental signals, letting her know her tip will be bigger if she works a bit longer on my knotted muscles and perhaps she heard me, I think I got a few more minutes than the lady in the chair next to me. Finally, my hands are unwrapped and the now solidified pinkness is peeled back to reveal my still warm, silky smooth, reborn hands. This alone is worth the price of admission.
So far, this was exactly as I had imagined my self-indulgent afternoon would be, and little did I know there would be a bit of theater to enhance the experience. From what I can gather, and this is a real stretch being that I speak no Asian languages (but for this reason alone I wish I could) , there was a disagreement between two of the technicians, a young woman and a man who would be considered her “elder.” In my imagination they are having an argument about who had to service the creepy man who came in a little while ago asking for a pedicure and an extended massage (I don't care how much these people make, there is not enough money in the world that would make this guy worth it). A few snippy comments back and forth turned into a verbal showdown right in front of me, louder and louder, faster and faster, hands in the air (damn, why can’t I understand them),until I was a bit worried that nunchucks were coming out. I debated internally if I should risk injury or get out of the chair. I did have my waxy boxing gloves on at the time and thought if need be I could defend myself or at least raise them to take cover. I didn’t want to miss the show, the lady next to me (maybe a bit angry because I got a longer massage) felt differently. “Excuse Me, does anyone speak English? Can you please make them stop, I come here to relax.” What is wrong with her, I am thoroughly enjoying the sideshow. Of course the man in charge defers to Mrs. Cranky and sends the screamers to argue outside. My nasty neighbor now tries to engage me in conversation to commiserate over the employee scuffle; I punish her and refuse to make small talk. This, in nail world, is a big deal; I normally make manicure chit-chat with anyone in proximity to my voice (which is almost everyone – I know). She felt slighted I’m sure and if by chance she has retold this story to one of you who reads my blog, let her know that she should have kept her mouth shut and let the drama unfold.
Yesterday I struggled to write and today I was inspired by grooming or just drunk on nail polish fumes, either way I hope you enjoyed my day as much as I did. And if you are ever in my neighborhood, or already are and were unfamiliar with this place of polishing, you should book an appointment, clear your afternoon (at least 2 ½ hours of it) and indulge in “mani-pedi" perfection.
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