Nailing It

Ms. Rachow’s bucket list includes a romantic trip to the Grecian Isles. It does not include skydiving, bungee jumping or getting a Brazilian.

My pal Cricket and I are at lunch, and she says, “Wanna go get pedicures?”

Truth is, my toes have never been inside a nail salon. I’m from Nebraska, and while we might dance there until the Herefords come home, the only reason we’d consult a professional in regard to toes would be if an actual cow had stepped on someone’s foot and an x-ray was needed to see if any bones were broken.

However, I am a girl, and I do like colorful toenails. When sandal season looms, I buy a bottle of polish and have a do-it-yourself pedicure. At age eleven this was no big deal. Now, just a few decades later, it requires level-three yoga to get down there, but I can still do it.

Only problem is, every year it’s harder to stay within the lines. I know the cardinal rule is that the red is supposed to evenly cover the entire nail but not sneak onto the skin around it. Steady as my hand might be, I always manage to get some polish over the edge. It takes sixty seconds to paint it on and the whole rest of the week for the excess to wear off my skin.

Maybe Cricket and millions of other women have the right idea about hiring experts to do their nails. Now that getting a real pedicure is on today’s schedule my toes tingle with excitement.
Luckily there’s a nail salon just a block away. These places have been sprouting like Starbucks in recent years, probably due to the growing number of baby boomers who can no longer reach their own toes.

Inside, the first thing I notice is the aroma. I expect it to smell like chemicals, but I’m surprised that it also seems sort of yummy.

Cricket points at the menu board, indicating that I need to choose a flavor. Here the pedicures can be had in coconut, chocolate and peach. Chocolate might be the obvious choice, but we are not the kind of women who do what is expected. We both go for coconut.

I notice a sign that says “Pedi/Brazilian Combo, $55.” I know that “pedi” is short for pedicure, but have no idea what “Brazilian” might be. So as not to publicly reveal my ignorance, I make a mental note to ask Cricket later.

Now it’s time to pick our polish. The names of the O.P.I. colors are quite fruity: “Catherine the Grape,” “Going Ape-ricot,” and “Hey! Get in Lime.”

We’re directed to climb to our pedi-perches, roughly equivalent to climbing Mount Olympus. Our feet dip into fancy basins of warm water, and our toes are at the perfect level for the pedicurists to work their magic. However this is an awkward arrangement for the intimate conversation one has with a hairstylist.

We get soaked, scrubbed, sanded, massaged, trimmed, and polished. In the time it normally takes me to touch my toes, I have nails aglow with a color between cantaloupe and a Mediterranean sunset. I see why they call this “Melon of Troy.”

After allowing time for drying, the miracle worker below helps me on with my sandals. I empty my wallet, hoping the tip is adequate to express my appreciation for this transformation, and I bid my pedi-buddy, Cricket, adieu. While I attend to the rest of the day’s errands, I imagine all eyes are on my twinkling toes.

Since my feet are gorgeous, I figure the rest of me deserves some attention. I head for the gym. Today I dance through the lunges, squats and planks as if I have the feet of a goddess.

It’s not until I get home and change clothes that I realize gym shoes should never go anywhere near fresh polish. Nine nails have made it through unscathed, but one big toe looks as if I stuck it in melting orange sherbet.

I know I should march back to the nail salon for do-overs. This is exactly what Cricket would do. However I’m from Nebraska, the do-it-yourself capital of the world. So I buy a bottle of matching color and repaint the schmushed nail myself.

While I relax, waiting for the repair polish to dry, I remember I forgot to ask Cricket to explain “Brazilian.” So I query Google.

Probably I’m the last person living in coastal California who doesn’t know about this “revealing” procedure. Suffice it to say that if you wear board shorts and a tee to the beach, you don’t need it.

First published in the Montecito Journal April 23, 2009