Profiles In Pedicure

It wasn’t that he was a large, hairy man getting a pedicure. Life in L.A. inured me to incongruity a long time ago.

Since I don’t spend a whole lot of time in nail salons, as far as I know the dominant demographic therein is now large, hairy and male. I went on Friday just because it was my mother’s birthday and I wanted her to have a treat.

No, I didn’t get a pedicure. See the previous post. Instead I had a manicure without nail polish, which is apparently an oxymoron along the lines of jumbo shrimp, except that people see jumbo shrimp all the time.

From the reactions – bewilderment shading through confusion to disbelief -- I’m the first person ever to walk through their door without wanting the Sistine ceiling, or at least decorator colors, on my fingertips. Come to think of it, I probably am.

Never mind, I was there for Melva.

The place is nice. The décor induces commercially-viable serenity. The people are pleasant in a way that didn’t make me feel awkward. My mother was happy, which is all I care about. I took a cute pic of her tootsies being tended. You can see it if you want to.

Anyhow, I sat there with plenty of time to look around and listen. The aforementioned dude did not sound happy. His discontent interested me simply because it made no sense.

For the record, I wasn’t listening on purpose. His voice carried way past all the profusely leafy greenery. (It's that kind of place.)

The guy had obviously been there before. He was fine with having two women fuss over him. He gave them his feet the way I bring my car for an oil change. I take that back. From the way he was talking, I bet he gave them his feet the way he brings his car in for an oil change. For the record, my heartfelt sympathy goes out to any food servers who ever have to take care of him.

In any case, he was radiating irritation in this bliss factory.

And even though the young lady holding my fingers kept wiping her nose on the back of her hand, and even though after all that I had to re-file my nails after I got home, it doesn’t matter. If they had offered me Flavor Aid, I probably would’ve drunk it.

Maybe the hairy guy should have had some. Kidding! It was a joke!

Never mind. One way or the other, the pedicure of his discontent will be made glorious summer soon. At least his feet are ready for sandals.