"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," another bridesmaid said, which seemed like sound advice to me. As someone who enjoys both trying things and knocking them, I was surprised I hadn't thought of it first. And yet here I was, unsure about the idea of having a manicure and pedicure, when I'd never even tried it. But then I realized that my hesitation wasn't because I thought I wouldn't enjoy it, but because the whole thing seemed pretty unnecessary.
And yet still, in my secret heart of hearts, I wanted to try it. Does this make me less true to the marching-to-my-own-beat person that I've tried to cultivate? No. Making decisions based on what I think a person who does their own thing would do is about as silly as making decisions based on what other people do. I should just, like, do what I want. Being yourself is hard.
The next morning, I got up at 8 am, with the idea of writing this paid pampering session off on my personal budget as good blog fodder and a bonding experience. That's what you do before a wedding. You do girly things with other girls. At least that's what I think you do. I've been a girl for more than 26 years and I still haven't figured it out.
We pulled up to Happy Nails, where the door said "Walk-ins welcome" and "We love you." I worried that I was going to have to tell Happy Nails that I just wanted to be friends. Inside, two Asian women and two Asian men waited to make good on their claim that walk-ins were welcome. After picking out polish colors (I picked clear), three of us sat in padded black chairs with our bare feet resting in mysterious bubbling green liquid. I never figured out if the green was from a light that came from the machine or from some magic liquid additive. Had they employees been standing in a circle, chanting "boil, boil, toil and trouble" before we walked in?
We played with the shiatsu massager buttons while strangers sat on stools at our feet and got to work. There was clipping and buffing and massaging and other verbing that I wouldn't even know what to call. I was glad that I had shaved my legs the night before. Walking around in a skirt, baring my hairy legs is one thing; having a stranger rub lotion into them is quite another.
The lady working on me was fast. I couldn't tell if that meant she was efficient or cutting corners. Perhaps she could tell from the state of my toes that I didn't really care how they looked. I wonder what else you can tell about a person from handling their feet. We didn't talk much to the employees. It was sort of a relief to me, because I dread having haircuts just because I'll have to make small talk to the person doing the job. But either there was a language barrier or you're just not supposed to talk to the person clipping your toenails. I'd probably just embarrass myself anyway, asking things like, "So, how do you like washing feet for a living? Is this part of the American Dream?"
After the clipping and buffing and massaging, the lady painted my toenails with impressive speed. Sure, it would be hard to tell if she had messed up, given that she was using clear polish. But the few times I have painted my nails have been slow and messy, like a kindergartener trying to stay in the lines with a too-big crayon. She didn't even stick her tongue out and furrow her brow in concentration. It was just swipe, swipe, swipe, you're done, and she was sticking foam separators between my toes.
We walked over to a fingernail station (she walked, I hobbled). There was more clipping and buffing and massaging. After the polish, she led me over to a bizarre combination table and lamp, where I held my hands underneath a light for six minutes. And then the six minutes was over, and I was done. I had just received my first ever mani/pedi, and I don't think a word ever passed between me and the lady who had done the work, though the door did proclaim some pretty strong emotions for me. Um, thanks? I think you're neat?
While I waited for the others to finish, I sat and browsed through women's magazines. I secretly enjoy the few waiting room opportunities I have to look at pictures of famous people, though I always feel embarrased to be seen looking at periodicals that promise to reveal 12 New Ways To Drive Him Wild (based on a survey of over 100 men!). It's always sort of fun to be empty-headed every once in a while before I get back in the car to my NPR and get depressed by the world again.
All finished and pampered, we got back in the car to drive to the hotel. Of course, everyone wanted to know how I felt about the whole experience. I was probably less gushing than they would have liked. I know that the appeal of a mani/pedi is in the pampering: having someone else spoil you a little bit, even if you do pay them to do it. It's like having a server bring you your food at a restaurant or the shampoo before your haircut. And I can get behind that idea (I love having my hair washed), though not really like this. This, this was too degrading for her and too intimate for me, no matter what the sign on the door said. I just felt bad for the woman and uncomfortable about what she was being paid to do for me. In all likelihood, the people doing it don't see it that way, but it was distracting enough to me that it prevented me from really enjoying the otherwise very pleasant sensation of having my feet rubbed.
So there. I tried it. And I think I just knocked it, too.
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