Yesterday, Susan and I went to go get our toes done. Susan was very excited to pair me up with David. The Famed David was supposedly a very great pedicurist and I was looking forward to his expertise.
I think my feet may have turned David into a different form of himself and instead of the wonderful, careful and great conversationalist he was rumored to be, he stared at me the entire time with a sort of unnerving stare. Like this. His staring was making me quite uncomfortable and I texted Susan, who was sitting in the chair next to me, that I thought he wanted to have my babies. Or maybe eat my liver with Fava beans.
David was good at whipping my feet in to shape. Yes, he tried to upsell me with the waxing and the eyebrow shaping and all the other annoying things they say to make you feel inferior until you cave in and agree to empty your wallet while you’re sitting in the chair, all of which I refused. But, he was good with my feet. I normally have issues with dryness on my heels and most of the time, the pedicurist will feel my heels and look slightly shocked at the sheer mass of dryness. David, however, looked unfazed. He oiled them and massaged them and told them a naptime story and then began using the rough paddle on them. And then suddenly, it was as if he was a pianist virtuoso, preparing to play the part near the end leading to the crescendo, and he raised his hiney in the air with a flourish, pushed back on the little seat he had been sitting on with the back of his legs, and bent completely over my feet, his legs solidly apart and sturdy as he gripped my feet with both hands and gave them all the attention a person has to offer. His hair shook wildly and his lab coat vibrated with determination. The dead skin went flying and I tried not to get grossed out. After all, David didn’t seem to care. He was determined to get things down to a normal level. And he did, too.
Oh, David. If only you weren’t an odd-staring-kind-of-person and I weren’t more-than-happily married and not in need of and slightly scared of your cop-a-feel-chair that massaged my butt for 10 minutes. Because my heels have never been so soft.
My last paid pedicure was awful. The esthetician really really did not like feet.
My feet are even exceptionally gross. Just regular every day feet.
I started doing my own because that just sucked.
aren’t. I meant aren’t.
Yikes … that is a slightly scary look, but any man that’ll go down on my heels like that would win my love every single time.
Plus, my man would be glad for me to stop giving him abrasions in bed at night with the sheer sharpness of my heels after the flip flop season is over.
I was a little put off by his stare I realized where I knew that look from – he’s a foot-focused Uri Gellar. He was just bending spoons in the other room with his mind.
I am laughing out loud. I adore that you inserted the look.
“cop-a-feel” chair! Yes, I’ve been in one of those and left it felling a bit …used.
FEELING! Feeling a bit used! Ugh! Fingers need to type slower, duh!