Every two weeks I get a pedicure. It’s cheap, the salon is a block from my home, and it makes me feel good. The Asian women that run the place are efficient to a fault and I don’t understand anything they say to each other. Plus, several of them give me the evil eye when I walk in because I always ask for Sammy (her “American” name) — it clearly pisses them off, but thrills the heck out of Sammy.
Today, as she scrubbed and massaged my feet, I tried to tune out the sounds of The Jerry Springer Show on the TV. But no. There was a woman screaming at a man, “You slept with my mother.” And his response, “But I was there to see you.” And her, “But you slept with my mother!” And him, “But I was there to see you.” The next thing you know, mother and daughter are fist fighting.
Enchanting, as a dear friend would say.
My toes look damn good.