Walking into the salon is like walking into Cheers or the Italian restaurants you see on TV. If we were not Midwestern we would all kiss each others' cheeks and coo. Sinking my feet into the tub of hot water, even in July, is heavenly (gokuraku-gokuraku, and my host mom would say in Japan). Soon my feet emerge one by one, and are scrubbed, filed, and massaged, the nails trimmed and buffed. Little piggies indeed. They are plunged into a bowl of hot wax three times and emerge resembling something from the Scooby Doo and the Wax Museum episode I saw as a kid. Bagged and bootied, they cool, then are stripped of the wax in one clean pull and the nails are painted like pink jelly beans that a misguided kid might try to eat (color: It's All Greek to Me).
In pedicure row there is always the business woman still wearing her suit getting her nails repainted at her regular appointment. The A-type brings her Blackberry and memos, the B-type looks as if she needs a secretary to remind her of her appointments but remarks that her daughter will move into a new apartment next weekend "so of course she needs a pedicure," without any intention of being funny or dramatic. There is also always the average middle-aged woman sitting quietly by herself; she always looks lonely. My mom and I breeze in wearing stylish work clothes and matching flip-flops in an attractive natural weave with gold (her) or dark brown (me) straps.
Eating: Nectarine
Reading: Honeymoon to Nowhere by Akimitsu Takagi and a collection of ghost stories by Edith Wharton.
Glenda the good list: friend F, for cleaning up our computer and fixing my computer game, enabling hours of good clean fun.
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