You know how when little kids are being chased by their monster dad, and they're so hysterical and trapped that the only thing they can think to do, is turn and run directly into the arms of their attacker? Yeah, well, that's what this is. I'm telling you the story before you find out on your own and hit me where it hurts~in my
(false) pride.
So it started with a last minute decision to get a pedicure. Seems a few months previous, my surly little toes had thrown a fit, screaming that they didn't need any "professional supervision". They thought they could make it on their own, so they packed up their polish and pumice and waved goodbye in peep toes. Stupid daft hoofs. But there they were, three months later, all cracked, bleeding and chipped, having shredded their last pair of pantyhose, and bawling that they couldn't pay their light bill and needed a place to stay.
Anyway, being the nurturer I am, I took pity on them. Which brings us to the desperate need and split second decision to run to the pedicurist. I entered the shop, obeyed the Vietnamese command to "choose culuh," grabbed a couple of magazines and rolling my pant legs up, slid my feet into the warm blue water. Suddenly, I was seized with clarity and dread, but it was too late.
I was Rapunzel.
Leg hair Rapunzel.
Which does not make for an enchanting fairy tale.
I quickly texted Kara, for sisterly support: "Oh. my. holy. junk! I just put my feet in the water, and forgot I haven't shaved!"
Kara: "How long has it been?"
Me: "Since before South Carolina."
Kara: "Oh, Lisa. Oh, geez. Well, don't bother apologizing. She doesn't understand English, anyway. Plus they're probably talking about you right now."
And they were.
So I did the best I could to stare at my magazine and avoid the teeny little girl's mocking laughter and black eyes. Which seemed to be going fine, until she held up my foot and scrutinized my heels, which were covered in half inch deep, dead dermis splits. This had slipped my mind, on account of they'd stopped stinging the day before. Our eyes locked and a silent understanding was reached. I was no longer welcome in this establishment.
And then, thinking the worst was over, I leaned forward to scratch a hairy limb, only to drop two brand new magazines into the basin filled with recently shaved skin shards. The girl just stared at me, lifted the trash lid and pointed and snapped for me to retrieve and discard. Not even the hint of a smile. Just my nervous laughter filling the air.
I kept my head down for the remainder of the appointment, which normally lasts around an hour and a half, but this time finished in just under 45 minutes. Weird. And then I beat a hasty retreat straight to my bathtub ledge, in order to right the wrong. I figured I could quickly shave, post-pedi, and rewrite history. Because sometimes I lie to myself.
So what do we learn from this, friends? First, Vietnamese girls hate Americans. Second, just because a foot stops stinging, does NOT mean it's in peak physical condition. And third, I need a new hairstyle, as they've just posted my mug shot on the wall.
Jerks.
