Anyone that knows me knows that conventional beauty and the reams of products, treatments and associated paraphernalia tend to leave me cold. With two kids and a Christmas list of activities application of makeup is haphazard at best and almost completely limited to a bit of sunscreen foundation and lippy, providing I remember it, before I go to work or out to dinner. I have an almost paralytic fear of beauty salons and parlours which means I've had a grand total of three facials in my whole life - one for my wedding and two that were gifts. Consequently any new beauty-related experience involves personal armour in the form of my confidence-boosting beauty-saavy best friend Kat von Z.
Recently I entered a salon for the first time in about five years. A few days before my brother's wedding I realised that the three other bridesmaids had made the effort to get fake nails applied - beautifully french polished and buffed to perfection - and my fresh-from-digging-in-the-strawberry-patch claw-like appendages were clearly not going to cut it. So I entered "Love Nails", one of the many mall-based salons staffed wholly and solely by young ladies of Asian descent that barely speak English. For the princely sum of $15 my nails were cut, shaped, buffed and French polished. Most excellent. But while there I noticed they also do pedicures for a whole $32.
I'm the first to admit that my feet are a disgrace. If nine years of ballet didn't destroy them then my inherited love of getting about barefoot from my mother did. Charles has a morbid fascination with them and tries to trim my toenails into something resembling human. Occasionally he'll give me a foot massage and tut-tut their appalling state and suggest - delicately - that perhaps a pedicure is in order. Mostly I don't worry about it but recently they became so rough that they were actually catching on the carpet like a macabre skin-velcro. I knew I was way beyond a pumice and professional pedicure was the only way to go.
Luckily Pippa's about to head to France on another junket so she was willing to humour me and have a moral-support pedi. We headed back to Love Nails where we're shown a wall of nail polish in every colour under the sun and told to choose. I go hooker red with a glittery sheen. Pip goes a similar colour only a shade darker. We're shown to two beige leather massage thrones that come complete with mini-spa for feet. The water looks and smells like blue mouthwash and honestly, who can blame them if it is? I certainly wouldn't be getting up close and personal with my feet until they'd been decontaminated.
Buttons are pressed and suddenly my chair comes to life, vibrating away under me. It's a bit like that moment on the runway when they power up the jet engines - fear, excitement, anticipation all set to a humming, vibrating chair. Oh Lord, here we go. And then the chair starts doing its thing. We are not here purely to vibrate - things are happening to my back, butt and thighs that feel for all the world like the firm palms of a Swedish man. I am so caught up in it that I almost fail to notice my attendant patting the towel for me to put my foot on so she can start her work. She will be earning her $32 today.
These ladies are models of efficiency and it takes them all of five minutes to trim, shape and de-cuticle our toe nails. They cluck away in whatever language they speak the whole time and their furtive glances, tight mouths and narrowed eyes scream disapproval at how bad my feet are. When they come to work on the feet themselves Pip gets a quick pumice but after one look at mine my attendant disappears and comes back with something closely resembling a vegetable peeler. My heels are duly peeled and only then am I allowed a pumice. I find myself apologising a lot for the state of my feet. It's clear from her arched brow that my attendant feels there are no excuses. I give up, lean back and enjoy my massage.
Sven the chair has decided we're past the friends stage and it's time to hit a home run. He's working my body in interesting ways and appears to be working up to some sort of crescendo that involves pummeling my back so my torso shimmies burlesque-style. This makes me giggle. Sven responds by running his talented hands up the back of my thighs and massaging my - er - upper-thigh region. Meanwhile our toenails are painted and then we're left to the tender ministrations of our thrones while we wait for our toenails to dry. Thirty minutes later and we're practically drooling and comatose. I can't remember the last time I felt so relaxed - I feel like curling up and sleeping right there on the couch.
I am told as I pay, "Next time you no leave it so long, okay?" and I promise to return within the next month to let them have another go at the tough hide covering my feet. It's a promise I won't mind keeping - $32 for beauty probably isn't worth it to me but 30 minutes with Sven? Absolutely.
