And I, being the one who made Bryce go get a different brand of pregnancy test to confirm the positive result because the instructions were riddled with typos, should have gotten up and walked out. But I didn't. I figured at least they spelled ladies right -- that was something.
We went in, plopped our feet in the basin of water, and the ladies powered up the massage chairs. I've never felt anything like it -- I was being pounded, karate chopped, and damn near expelled from my chair by an overly aggressive masseuse. With the bar rolling and poking, it was far from relaxing despite the aesthetician's big smile and repeated protestations of "Nice! Nice!" with a convincing nod. When it started squeezing my hips and then nearly violating me with some sort of intrusive bum shot, I quickly found the power button and turned it off.
The rest of the foot portion went fine and then we went off to get our finger nails done. I told the girl that I don't like my cuticles cut and I can only assume that her English isn't great. I'll have to learn how to say "Stop!" in Vietnamese. She promptly sliced my finger and I sat there bleeding for a few minutes before she noticed and put some stuff on it to prevent infection. Or at least I hope that's what it was. If I get staph from this I'll be seriously pissed!
She pulled out the clippers and started snipping away at my long, rounded nails. She may have asked me if that was okay but I can't be sure. I couldn't quite figure out when she was talking to me in English and when she was talking to her friend in Vietnamese. But, hey, I'm up for a change. She squared off my nails, painted them, and whisked me away to get my eye brows waxed. And here was another brochure warning that went unheeded:
She set me down, slathered the hot wax thickly on my eye "browns" and started tearing. She tweezed a bit and sent me on my way, glowing red but less hairy.
It wasn't until I got to the car and actually looked at my nails that I noticed all of the nails on my left hand are at a slant. A very noticeable slant. I'm talking a good 45 degree angle. How did I not notice that? And my eye brows, or rather browns, were patchy and require a bit of homework to make them right, or at least right enough to go out in public. My finger throbbed on my unevenly manicured finger and Ben asked me and my mom if we were hot or sunburned because we looked red.
It was a gong show from start to finish but it was well worth it in the laughs Mom and I shared, especially after we compared war stories. While we may look elsewhere next time we need a mani-pedi, this place was certainly memorable!
