Where Does One Begin?

She begins in the middle, on a very pretty, not-quite hot Friday while other people are miserably packed on freeways. She slurps a mango. What's the trick? How do you really handle a mango? She tears into it like a savage and revolves around the giant pit. Strands in her teeth. Fringed teeth. Angry toes!

Today was her first pedicure. What nonsense! This is torture, pure and simple. After making an appointment, she had to wait for half an hour. When it was time for the process, she asked for direction. No one wanted to take that responsibility. And to be fair, there was a wee language barrier, but the message was clear: Where do I go? Where are my feet supposed to be?

Instruments of torture are stuck in small, shared glasses, feebly attempting to look sterile. The feet are fairly safe in the bath-TRY not to think about the fact that the neighboring male Nail Tech washed down the tub only by swiping it with a towel. Now parts of her skin are being shorn off. Not. Fun. Mini hedge clippers. She is not made of leaves, my friends.

The polish is on. Paper towel is between her toes. And here comes the "paper sock." It's a flip-flop made out of packing tissue. Vile. She abhors flip-flops. Our sad heroine is placed with feet under a dryer. It should be noted that people have been staring-staring-at her tattooed legs and shoulders from the moment she walked in. They are not amused. Dour menopausal women send out their self-righteous signals. You don't belong here.

Her meek Nail Tech is hiding. She'd done everything she could to avoid eye contact with the client, and now she's run off. What to do? Put on the shoes? They are wedge sandals, not her usual footwear, but fancy footwear for the occasion. The Nail Tech returns and takes her gift certificate. It's for $30, but the service is only $20. Nail Tech is perplexed. What to do? She, her, me, she must get out. No time to learn what one might do with a Gift Certificate (most people write another one for the remainder). "Keep it all," she says. She tips $7 to overcompensate for her uncomfortableness and because she wants the Nail Tech to know that freaks are not cheapskates.

She gets the sandal straps tightened and walks out, feeling relieved that it's over. In the car now, she looks at her pretty toes. The sandals have pushed the polish around on the left big toe: the polish job has been destroyed. She is laughing.