The Pedicure Finale’ or Finally…

Okay, so this has gone on long enough. Today I give you the end of what must be the most ridiculous thing I have written to date.

I promise you some Jesus in the coming weeks, Girls. But for now, as the dear Paul Harvey would say, here’s the rest of the story.

Now that I have established the necessary backstory about my issues with feet and my reasons for confidence in Asian nail salons, perhaps you will understand a bit better the thought process that led me to finally determine I was going to take the plunge and get a real live, non-cosmetology-school pedicure while on vacation in Florida. Or so I thought.

We went on vacation with our BFF’s Chuck and Deb and their daughter, Tara. Tara is in her early twenties and always up for spending some cash to indulge her sweet self. She is a mall vendor’s best friend – just ask the Israeli Dead Sea Mineral Makeup salesgirl who will now be able to move her entire family to the USA with her Tara Commission. But yet again, that’s a story for another day.

I had determined this would be the year that I would splurge and get my First Real Pedicure. I didn’t want to go alone and because of Tara’s propensity to pamper, I knew she would be up to go with me. We weren’t that particular about what salon we visited. Based on the history I’ve given you, here is a breakdown of my thought process:

1. Surely there would be a nail salon somewhere around the mall.
2. Most likely it would be asian.
3. Meaning we didn’t need an appointment
4. Hopefully a girl would do my feet because, even though Joahd;ajknweor had done a great job on my nails, I wasn’t too keen on a dude massaging my feet and legs.
5. If all went as planned, my tired feet would be replaced with exfoliated freshness topped with cute polish with polka dots or flowers like this.
6. Ahhh….sounded too good to be true.

It was.

On the fateful day, we drove around the mall and found a Salon. Do you believe in signs? I mean literally and figuratively? If so, you’ll understand why I knew this particular place was meant for us. The name?

Lisa’s Nail Salon.

It still slays me.

I knew it was a sign of Divine Favor. God wanted me to have a pedicure – a good pedicure – and so He showed me all burning-neon-bush-like that this was the right place.

Am I into neon signs anymore, you ask? Notsomuch. I’m working more with the Magic 8 Ball now which by the way assures me I am going to have a book in LifeWay one day….Something else to get excited about.

Anyhooo….Tara and I went in to the salon and as it worked out, they had time to do side by side pedicures. I was so excited! It was just so girly, you know. Sitting with my best little girlfriend, chatting it up while we got our feet done. The thing of perfect vacations are made of. And to top it off, the most darlin’ girl came and began to work on my feet who was clearly experienced in what she was doing. I leaned back in my massage chair and prepared for bliss.

And then, just as I settled back in my chair, the Papasan of Pedicures came out and stole my girl. He sent her to begin working on Tara and out from behind him came my worst nightmare.

His eleven-year-old apprentice.

This man took my girl and replaced him with the Doogie Houser of Cosmetology.

Now I am sure this child was perfectly sweet but something about a kid who is 4 feet tall wearing saddle oxfords and a goofy grin doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. He bowed and grinned. And grinned some more.

I don’t know about you but when I am in church and the kids are bored and acting up, I can normally give them some notebook paper and a pen to keep them happy for a while. Apparently in the world of nail salons, you give the hyper child some cuticle clippers, polish, and some toes.

Did I mention he never stopped grinning?

Doogie-san sat down and began working on my cuticles. Now granted, I had worked on them a bit myself because, based on the fact I had been on the other end of the foot before, I wasn’t about to stick my overgrown cuticles in someone’s face.

Because I’m all thoughtful like that.

But I expected some force, do you know what I mean? I expected the cuticle pusher to hurt just a little. No pain, no gain – right? But all I know to compare the timidity of his cuticle pushing with is that of a limp handshake.

And with that said, it was clear I was the very first pedicure this child have ever done in his entire life.

And I was devastated.

So Tara’s girl is finished with her feet in no time and even shaved off her corns and bunions with a razor. My dude did not venture into Razor Land. I guess for that I should be grateful or I could have ended up a few toes short of a full pedicure like my Fungus Lady. Tara was already getting polished by the time the ever-grinning Doogie proceeded to lotion my calves.

A process I found entirely creepy.

It became obvious pretty early on I was getting no polka dots or flowers in my polish so I picked a reddish color Luke had said he liked. I was hoping Doogie would surprise me and at least be able to color within the lines.

Hope is now a word I use sparingly.

Boy Wonder began his work only to be confirmed as the worst nail painter in cosmetological history. Even worse than my mangled toe flesh paint job of the Fungus Lady. My toes looked like he poured the polish out of the bottle onto my toe and wiped off around it. It would be giving him too much credit to say it looked like my 8 year old son painted them. I was so deep in despondency at this point I was trying to justify my $30 was kind of like giving to foreign missions as I clearly was not getting any valued service. And all the while my compassionate friend Tara was sending me texts:

“I think he likes you.”

That made it all better.

As we sat in the torture devices Shiatsu massage chairs to let our toes dry, the girl who did Tara’s feet apparently could tell I was distressed. Doogie was unconcerned as he had moved on to a 9 year old girl. You know, someone his age. I called Tara’s girl over and showed her my polish and said, “Can you fix please?”

And clearly she was well-trained in the political correctness of not dissing her fellow man’s polish skilz, but the look of horror on her face said it all.

“Oh, so sorry. Soooo sorry.” And to her credit, she had me looking as good as possible without applying skin bleach. My toes were stained red for days I tell you. After she was done, she said something with a lot of syllables to the boy and he looked at me.

And grinned.

And chicken poop never looked so good. Something tells me JOp0934[qn;kdf will need some help on the farm and I totally have his boy.

For clarity: The boy wasn’t really eleven..I was exaggerating – Imagine that! But there’s no way he was older than a teenager. I would never let an eleven-year-old work on my feet.

I positively draw the line at 13……