It's raining me

The face on the guy to the left…

I’ve been putting off a pedicure for, oh, about a year now. I hate pedicures. I’m always embarrassed at having to get them. It seems so…arrogant, somehow, asking someone to take responsibility for my cracked heels and aging toenails. I know Jesus washed his disciples’ feet, and I feel uncomfortable revisiting this dynamic—the humble, hardworking immigrant doing the nasty work for the less holy.

I bit the bullet the other day. I’d had to go to the next town over to buy thread and spray starch as part of my incredibly exciting life. There, just down the street was a mani-pedi place. It was also next to a smoothie place, and I had forgotten to eat breakfast.

Not my feet.

I got my mango-pineapple-soy-protein-squash-energy-boosting drink (which did nothing other than give me a brain freeze) and went next door to the spa. The place was immaculate and sparkly, the pedicure chairs lacking the typical cracks and broken arms. There were no other customers, just five or six women dressed all in black, talking to each other in Spanish. They fell silent as I walked in. “Can I help you?” one asked.

“Can I get a pedicure?”

“Sure. Pick out a color.”

Color requires at least twenty minutes more, and I wasn’t really there for aesthetics. “Oh, no color,” I said. “Just callus remover. Lots of callus remover, okay? Extra if possible.” You see, my beloved Joss Dey, who’s usually my dealer for black market foot care products, had failed to come through this past Christmas, and my feet have become particularly thorny. Sure, I have a foot file and pumice and a cheese grater thingie, but sometimes you just need the professionals. And acid.

Also not my feet. Yet.

Lucy (not her real name) guided me to the pedicure chair, which had a massage feature, the kind that make you aware of just how fragile your kidneys are. I rolled up my jeans, the pair I’d worn all summer while painting my daughter’s house. The tears in the knees are not too huge yet, and I’ve told myself they’re artsy. I then realized I hadn’t shaved my legs in, oh, a few weeks. “Sorry,” I muttered. I told myself they saw hairy legs all the time, but the stream of Spanish between Lucy and her coworkers seemed to say otherwise. You know they’re talking about you. I would, too. “My God, has this woman ever heard of a razor?” and also “Razor, nothing. Has she ever heard of the sun?”

“Too hot?” Lucy asked as she plunged my feet into boiling water.

“Oh, a little,” I said as my feet turned lobster red. She added green food coloring. I don’t know why. Then she slathered mud on my legs, secured them in Saran wrap (again, a mystery) and looked at my toenails. “Trim?” she asked. At this point, I could easily climb a tree, given their length, so I said yes, please, then buried my face in the Pinterest app on my phone in order to avoid having to watch.

When we were in Denmark years ago, I went to the kind of pedicure place that has tiny fish nibble off your dead skin. “You’re gonna have to change these out,” I said to the man ten minutes later, as the fish floated, listless and bloated, around my feet.

I’ve also tried Baby Feet, an Asian product guaranteed to make your feet feel as soft as an infant’s after chemical burns result in your skin sloughing off. I forced my husband to peel off whatever he could, then let our dogs do the rest. Weeks later, my daughter and I were getting pedicures together, and she noticed that my lady, “Ruth,” had quite the pile of skin under my feet. “Mommy!” the Princess hissed. “Did you use Baby Feet?”

“Yes, but it was weeks ago!” I said in my defense. Ruth cut me a look and kept up with the cheese grater. “Wait longer next time,” she said, and I blushed and muttered that I would. Obviously, I never went back.

Lucy then did what I came in for. She roughed up my heels and the balls of my feet with a sander of some kind, then slathered on the acid, put my feet in plastic bags and set them back in the hot water. My blueish skin, a gift from my Eastern European ancestors and a lifelong dedication to 100 factor sunscreen, seemed to glow in the greenish water. Though the hair on my head has turned gray, my leg hairs have remained staunchly black and stood out sharply against my waxy, corpse-like skin. I will leave such a big tip, Lucy, I thought to myself. I’m sorry you have to see this.

As the acid soaked into my skin, Lucy started the embarrassing leg massage. It was uncomfortable—Lucy had strong hands, and the hair pulled unpleasantly. Then came the hot stone, which she rubbed up and down those moon-lit shins. I endured, waiting for the magic to happen.

Finally, Lucy removed my foot from the water and started filing. Bits of me flew into the air, landing on her lap, the towel, the floor. Her brow grew damp with exertion. I went into a dream state. At long last, I thought, my feet will no longer itch. I will not have to hear the sound of putting on socks nor the rasp of my heels against the sheets at night. I will not have to stare at my hideous appendages every yoga class, because they will be transformed into things of beauty.

Exhausted now, Lucy stood up. My flesh rained down. She brushed off her pants (why do they wear black?), then shook the towel out, pelting me with my DNA. I texted Joss, my twin in all things feet, making sure my face was very serious.

Getting my annual pedicure… she just stood up to brush away the dead skin, then shook the towel in my direction, showering me with my own dead flesh.

Joss: I’ve heard that’s very hydrating.

Me: There are some skin scrapings on her chest. To mention this, or not?

Joss: Hmmmm. I think no. Let her think it’s powdered sugar or something.

Me: I hate you.

Because now I was laughing silently, tears streaming down my face as Lucy took out the other foot and repeated the procedure as I wheezed and wiped my eyes and apologized and pretended my laughter had nothing to do with the horrifying event playing out between us. She eventually placed both my feet back in the green water—I dared not look, afraid I would see something akin to stew—then rinsed and patted them dry. “Clear polish?” she asked, again brushing her black pants, a bit more vigorously this time. We will always be together, “Lucy,” I thought, my shoulders shaking.

These cost $1,430. You can have mine for free.

“No, no polish,” I said. “Nothing is fine. Thank you so much.” You can never come here again, Higgins, I told myself, as I have told myself at every place I’ve ever had a pedicure. I left a 30% tip and slunk to my car, calling Joss immediately to berate her for being so mercilessly funny. During our conversation, I realized my artsy jeans had a significant hole in the crotch. Realizing Lucy had had a good view of that, and therefore my aging cotton underwear, Joss and I shrieked with horrified laughter. Lucy’s tip had not been big enough.

That night, I slathered my newly revealed skin with olive oil and Aquaphor, put on cotton socks and wore them for the next 24 hours to ensure maximum efficacy. When I took the socks off, I forced my spouse to fondle them and admire their smoothness.

But I know how I am. Give my feet 24 hours, and I'll be googling new pedicure places.