Remember the last time I had a pedicure? It was bad, right? And I "coincidentally" got an ingrown toenail shortly afterwards which I had to have surgically repaired.
And I also had a pedicure when I was 6 months pregnant which resulted in cracked and bleeding heels that were so uncomfortable that I couldn't walk normally, but hobbled everywhere for weeks.
Today, I tried again.
Because I never quite know when I should just call it quits.
My mom was over visiting today which meant that I had the rare opportunity to get out without the baby and do something nice for myself. Something nice. A pedicure would be nice. I sure needed one since it has been many months since my last.
I tried a place that a couple of my girlfriends go to and they like it. (Although the cracked and bleeding heels place was also somewhere that a couple of girlfriends went that they recommended) It started out fine enough. It was run by Vietnamese women with Canadian names (Kim, Amy, Tammy) who barely spoke a lick of english. They didn't talk too much, which is fine because that means they didn't insult me by asking if I got fat before the baby or after... And their pedicure chair? The wicked massage that it was giving me was fantastic.
So my feet soaked in the bubbly, warm, blue water and then "Kim" took them out one at a time and set them on a clean white towel while she trimmed my nails and applied cuticle lotion and pushed back the cuticles. I was feeling relaxed sitting in the magical massage chair while someone tended to my poor, neglected feet.
Then "Kim" pulled out the cradle blade. I always cringe when they use those things. It creeps me out the way they shave skin off your feet. Also the cradle blade was the sole reason for my cracked and bleeding heels from a previous pedi.
But I tried to relax. I told myself that "Kim" is a professional and I'm sure she knows what she's doing with a cradle blade.
A gleaming, sharp cradle blade.
And it was sharp. I could feel it slicing off potato chip sized pieces of calloused skin like a deli meat slicer going through a dry salami.
Just then a couple of girls walked in to the "salon" and asked if they could get a pedicure and an eyebrow wax. Immediately "Kim" and "Amy" started speedfire talking to each other in Vietnamese. Chitterchatter backandforth backandforth chitterchatter backandforth and then ZING!!!
"Kim" sliced deep into the heel of my foot with the cradle blade.
And I was ripped from my relaxed state with a lightening bolt of pain that made me suck air in between my clenched teeth.
And then there was blood.
And "Kim" said, "Oh! So sorry!" and she proceeded to pack the wound with tiny little squares of gauze that just weren't enough. The blood was running from my foot right through the gauze. So she squirted some green liquid over the wound which might as well have been battery acid. THE PAIN! Oh. The. Searing. PAIN!
Cradle Blade "Kim" said, "It ok! It ok!"
She set my heel upon more gauze to which I applied as much pressure as I could to try to stop the bleeding. No such luck. "Kim" had to change her gleaming white towel three separate times. I've seen less blood in all of Quentin Tarantino's movies. Finally she just put my foot back in the bubbling, blue water. Out of sight, out of mind I suppose?
I wanted to cry. Not just because it hurt like a motherfucker, but because this was my special little treat to myself. I just wanted a little Tarable time to unwind and relax and have something pretty done to my feet. Instead I was sitting in this god forsaken Vietnamese nail salon, donating my blood to their foot bath.
And right then the oblivious, ditzy blond lady in the chair next to me says, "That's a neat place for a tattoo! I just love your dragonfly!" (referring to the tattoo on my foot). I just looked at her and went, "Hmph" and looked away. If I talked I might cry. Or cut a bitch.
And here's where it gets worse. "Kim" carried on with my pedicure. And I let her. All the while she continued to try to cover up the fact that I was bleeding all over the place. And then when it was finished, they charged me $30.
And I? I paid.
I know. Go ahead, Everyone. Shame me!
A smart mouthed, self sufficient, independant, tough, stick-up-for-myself chick PAID $30 for a pedicure that made me loose a pint or two of blood.
Don't think I don't hate myself enough already for it.
In my defence? I just wanted to leave. I was already on the verge of crying and if I had to have an arguement with "Kim" or "Amy" about paying for my pedicure (and you KNOW they would have argued) in a room full of bitches who somehow managed to get their nails painted all pretty without feeling weak from blood loss, then I may have lost my shit. And I just wanted to go home and lose my shit in private.
Ok I didn't make it home, I lost my shit in my car.
And now, six hours later I've been through a number of bandages and I am still bleeding through them. (Who knew that the heel had so many nerve endings?) And I'll tell ya, I'm feeling a little blue. I am ashamed of myself for paying for such a horrible experience and not saying boo about it. How I desperately wish I could go back in time and lay the smack down on Cradle Blade "Kim". Let her have the what for and exclaim that "I most certainly will NOT be paying one red cent for this pedicure!!!" - instead of running home and crying my sorry little eyes out. (Bye the way? Pedicure injuries rate very low on the husband sympathy scale.)
So if you feel the need to chastize me for being such a pussy? Don't bother. Nobody can beat me up like I can (or anyone with a cradle blade). I'm well aware that I didn't handle this in correct Tarable manner and I will have to live with my shame for the rest of my life (or at least until I can wash the blood stains off my flip flops).