My mother-in-law bought me a manicure and a pedicure for my birthday and it was time for me to redeem the gift certificate. I was totally stoked, because I was ready for some "me time." No students. No husband. No child. No bills. No distractions. No problems. No worries.
Just me and my favorite Vietnamese lady and some warm paraffin wax. I'd relax in the massage chair; she'd scrub my calluses.
Win. Win. Right?
Not so much.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was when I showed up for my appointment. My "girl" (their word, not mine) was not there. She was sick, so they gave me to another woman, Candy. I never like getting a pedicure with a new person. I have three or four people that I like, but I have one who is my favorite. I was a little reticent, but I was ready to be pampered and my hooves definitely needed the help, so I agreed.
Candy ran the water and sprinkled the green rock salt in, and life was good.
For a moment or two, anyway.
She let my feet soak for awhile as she attended to someone else. That was okay with me. I turned up the vibration and heat in the seat and then turned the massage up on my chair until it looked like I was riding a bucking bronco. I was going to relax, and I didn't care if it looked like I was having convulsions or not. It was my time, dangit. I was going to enjoy it. I plugged in my earbuds and blissed out on some Adele.
I was just about to the point of relaxation when I felt my foot being lifted from the water. She scrubbed and lotioned and massaged my legs with warm stones. Candy lifted up one foot and made a clucking noise, "You need medicine. Medicine for you feet." She went and got a brown bottle I had never seen before. She put another pair of gloves on top of the one she already had on and slathered my feet with the "medicine."
"Medicine good for you feet. Make soft. Like baby," then she said something in her native tongue and several of the other girls working there looked at my feet and laughed.
My self-esteem slipped a notch.
At one point, Candy got a drop of it on her arm, and it almost instantly left a pencil eraser sized burn on her forearm. I freaked out a little at that, but I couldn't feel that it was doing anything to the bottom of my feet. The "medicine" was left on for a little bit, and then she scrubbed and rinsed. Whenever I asked what it was for (calluses? dead skin? bacteria? what-for-the-love-of-muffins-is-wrong-with-my-feet?), she would only say "medicine for you feet."
The rest of the pedicure was divine. My feet were encased in warm wax, rubbed in seaweed scrub, buffed, and polished. I was starting to get my pampered groove back.
After we finished the pedicure, I hobbled over to the manicure table for her to work on my nails. Due to working on cakes all the time and the fact that tissue paper is thicker than my nails, I keep them super short. I really just needed them to be polished and the cuticles dealt with.
Candy spoke limited English and had spoken to me, maybe twice the entire pedicure. As she sat down at the table with me and examined my nails, she began to cluck like a chicken again and frown.
"You nails short," she said.
"Yes. I make cakes, " I replied. "I like my nails short."
"Too short. Make hand look like man. Ugly. Long nail pretty. You need long nail."
And that would be one less dollar that she would be getting for a tip. Thanks for telling me I have man-hands.
She kept trying to get me to get fake nails by insulting my "ugly finga-nail." NOT the way to get me to spend forty-five bucks, but thanks anyway.
I was just settling back into the manicure, starting to relax, and sneaking looks at my hands to see if they really DID resemble Sly Stallone's or Arnold Schwarzenegger's, when she started in on me again.
"We fix you eyebrow?"
"What?"
"You eyebrow...look like cat-ee-pilla crawl on face. Big, black. We give you sexy Vietnamee eyebrow...make your eyebrow go <POP>" and she made a popping sound with her mouth.
I self-conciously touched my eyebrow with my free hand. I knew they needed to be waxed, but a caterpillar?
"I don't know if I have time today. I'm going on a date later with my husband. Thank you, though," I smiled weakly.
"Ooooohhhhh....date!!!" she whisper-breathed. "You need sexy Vietnamee eyebrow for you man. Vietnamee eyebrow good for you. You be lucky time later!!! Sexy Vietnamee eyebrow men love!! Eye go <POP> Cat-ee-pilla eyebrow no good. Men like sexy Vietnamee eyebrow. I fix for you. Eyebrow go <POP>. I fix." Then, she patted my hand, like I was a truly sad case.
Well, when you put it like that.... How could I turn down "lucky time"? Or even more how could I turn down a "sexy Vietnamee" eyebrow when I had caterpillars crawling across my face now?
My self-esteem was rapidly tanking, so I figured the ten bucks for an eyebrow wax would be worth it.
When my nails were finished, she took me back to the eyebrow room. I laid down on the table, closed my eyes, and waited for that first warm shock of wax.
It didn't come.
I opened my eyes, and Candy was about 8 inches away from my face.
"You want me fix you catfish lip, too?"
"WHAT?!?!"
"You catfish lip. Hair here. Hair here. Hair here. Look like catfish. I fix good for you. Lucky time laaaaater," she sing-songed. "No catfish lip."
Now if my husband had not, just days before looked at me in a restaurant, and said, "My GOSH! That's a long hair right there," and then pointed at my lip, I would not have succumbed to the peer pressure.
But he had... so I did.
"Sure, Candy. Why don't you wax my lip and my eyebrows?"
"Ooooh! Good for you!! I do you chin hair too. I charge you less since you need much help for lucky time."
And the hits just keep on coming.
That day I left with my toes sparkling, fingers polished, and a huge goatee-shaped red mark on my face. Not to mention sexy Vietnamee eyebrow. I had never been more "beautiful" and felt worse about myself.
Just me and my favorite Vietnamese lady and some warm paraffin wax. I'd relax in the massage chair; she'd scrub my calluses.
Win. Win. Right?
Not so much.
My first inkling that something might be amiss was when I showed up for my appointment. My "girl" (their word, not mine) was not there. She was sick, so they gave me to another woman, Candy. I never like getting a pedicure with a new person. I have three or four people that I like, but I have one who is my favorite. I was a little reticent, but I was ready to be pampered and my hooves definitely needed the help, so I agreed.
Candy ran the water and sprinkled the green rock salt in, and life was good.
For a moment or two, anyway.
She let my feet soak for awhile as she attended to someone else. That was okay with me. I turned up the vibration and heat in the seat and then turned the massage up on my chair until it looked like I was riding a bucking bronco. I was going to relax, and I didn't care if it looked like I was having convulsions or not. It was my time, dangit. I was going to enjoy it. I plugged in my earbuds and blissed out on some Adele.
I was just about to the point of relaxation when I felt my foot being lifted from the water. She scrubbed and lotioned and massaged my legs with warm stones. Candy lifted up one foot and made a clucking noise, "You need medicine. Medicine for you feet." She went and got a brown bottle I had never seen before. She put another pair of gloves on top of the one she already had on and slathered my feet with the "medicine."
"Medicine good for you feet. Make soft. Like baby," then she said something in her native tongue and several of the other girls working there looked at my feet and laughed.
My self-esteem slipped a notch.
At one point, Candy got a drop of it on her arm, and it almost instantly left a pencil eraser sized burn on her forearm. I freaked out a little at that, but I couldn't feel that it was doing anything to the bottom of my feet. The "medicine" was left on for a little bit, and then she scrubbed and rinsed. Whenever I asked what it was for (calluses? dead skin? bacteria? what-for-the-love-of-muffins-is-wrong-with-my-feet?), she would only say "medicine for you feet."
The rest of the pedicure was divine. My feet were encased in warm wax, rubbed in seaweed scrub, buffed, and polished. I was starting to get my pampered groove back.
After we finished the pedicure, I hobbled over to the manicure table for her to work on my nails. Due to working on cakes all the time and the fact that tissue paper is thicker than my nails, I keep them super short. I really just needed them to be polished and the cuticles dealt with.
Candy spoke limited English and had spoken to me, maybe twice the entire pedicure. As she sat down at the table with me and examined my nails, she began to cluck like a chicken again and frown.
"You nails short," she said.
"Yes. I make cakes, " I replied. "I like my nails short."
"Too short. Make hand look like man. Ugly. Long nail pretty. You need long nail."
And that would be one less dollar that she would be getting for a tip. Thanks for telling me I have man-hands.
She kept trying to get me to get fake nails by insulting my "ugly finga-nail." NOT the way to get me to spend forty-five bucks, but thanks anyway.
I was just settling back into the manicure, starting to relax, and sneaking looks at my hands to see if they really DID resemble Sly Stallone's or Arnold Schwarzenegger's, when she started in on me again.
"We fix you eyebrow?"
"What?"
"You eyebrow...look like cat-ee-pilla crawl on face. Big, black. We give you sexy Vietnamee eyebrow...make your eyebrow go <POP>" and she made a popping sound with her mouth.
I self-conciously touched my eyebrow with my free hand. I knew they needed to be waxed, but a caterpillar?
"I don't know if I have time today. I'm going on a date later with my husband. Thank you, though," I smiled weakly.
"Ooooohhhhh....date!!!" she whisper-breathed. "You need sexy Vietnamee eyebrow for you man. Vietnamee eyebrow good for you. You be lucky time later!!! Sexy Vietnamee eyebrow men love!! Eye go <POP> Cat-ee-pilla eyebrow no good. Men like sexy Vietnamee eyebrow. I fix for you. Eyebrow go <POP>. I fix." Then, she patted my hand, like I was a truly sad case.
Well, when you put it like that.... How could I turn down "lucky time"? Or even more how could I turn down a "sexy Vietnamee" eyebrow when I had caterpillars crawling across my face now?
My self-esteem was rapidly tanking, so I figured the ten bucks for an eyebrow wax would be worth it.
When my nails were finished, she took me back to the eyebrow room. I laid down on the table, closed my eyes, and waited for that first warm shock of wax.
It didn't come.
I opened my eyes, and Candy was about 8 inches away from my face.
"You want me fix you catfish lip, too?"
"WHAT?!?!"
"You catfish lip. Hair here. Hair here. Hair here. Look like catfish. I fix good for you. Lucky time laaaaater," she sing-songed. "No catfish lip."
Now if my husband had not, just days before looked at me in a restaurant, and said, "My GOSH! That's a long hair right there," and then pointed at my lip, I would not have succumbed to the peer pressure.
But he had... so I did.
"Sure, Candy. Why don't you wax my lip and my eyebrows?"
"Ooooh! Good for you!! I do you chin hair too. I charge you less since you need much help for lucky time."
And the hits just keep on coming.
That day I left with my toes sparkling, fingers polished, and a huge goatee-shaped red mark on my face. Not to mention sexy Vietnamee eyebrow. I had never been more "beautiful" and felt worse about myself.
You know, you're a pretty good writer. :)
ReplyDeleteThank you!!! I've always wanted to write; everyone has always told me I have funny stories and should. Just decided this month to do it! :)
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