Memories of a Pedicure

If you need a bit of Southern-style hilarity in your life today, go directly to this post at The Preacher's Wife and then read part two here.

No. Really.

Go now.

OK. Are you back? Are you done? Can I share my story now?

Being a mom to two young children, I haven't bothered to get a manicure since 2003 when my brother got married (to Julie who is one of my favorite people and who is now two days past her due date for her first baby, bless her heart; let's all give her a big shout out).

(Wait. I need to share a picture from their gorgeous wedding on the beach in San Diego. Will you indulge me?)






















Aren't they adorable?!? I love that photo.

OK. Back to the story.

I realized then, in 2003, that, a. my hands are either continually in motion, in water or in trouble, and b. they don't make a nail polish strong enough for my life. Despite the beautiful job by the technician, my manicure chipped and smudged before I had even gotten to the car. (Something about my 20-month-old daughter wanting to admire Mommy's pretty hands.)

However. I believe that same visit also introduced me to the joy that is a pedicure. Apparently, my feet aren't subject to the same amount of abuse as my hands. So I can get an adorable pedicure, complete with hibiscus flowers that have a jewel in the middle that is fun and sassy, and it will look good for weeks if not months.

Fast-forward a few years. My daughter grew up watching me return from trips to California with cute and sparkling toes. (Yes, that's right. I had to travel to California to get a fun and sassy pedicure. Because there were no Asian salons in the small town where we lived at the time, and the white girls at the salons in town had never heard of hibiscus flowers and jewels. Heck, they weren't even sure they had heard of Asians.)

(I kid. But barely. My husband was the racial diversity were we used to live. But that's a post for another day.)

So. The daughter. She loved the toes. The sparkles. The jewels. The flowers. She admired them. It only seemed right that, on our next family trip to San Diego, I would take her to a real Asian salon to get Her Very First Pedicure.

I warned her in advance that very little English would be spoken at the salon -- but I assured her she would leave with the cutest toes ever.

Of course, I didn't think to warn her that her sweet tech was most likely going to be speaking Vietnamese. Which is why she did what any child who has been raised on Nick Jr. would do: She started speaking "Dora"-inspired Spanish to her tech whenever conversation grew quiet.

"Hola?" "Lo hicimos?" "Azul?" "Cuidado?

The slightly confused girl painting my daughter's toes would look at me quizzically. Being too far away to correct my daughter without embarrassing everyone, I could only smile and nod.

And thus, we ended our visit. My daughter was thrilled with her toes, as was I.

And after reading The Preacher's Wife post, I'm just happy Dora doesn't have an episode where she visits a chicken farm. It could have been much worse.