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As a middle-aged husband, father of two teenagers, and the owner of a residential remodeling company, the last thing on my mind is taking care of myself. Sure, there are the last second no-appointment haircuts, the fast in-shower shaves, and the occasional shoulder rubs from my wife. The last thing on my mind is usually anything having to do with my feet unless there is severe trauma to these extremities like a late night meeting of my toes with our bed frame. I suppose it has to do with the proximity to my head; I pay little attention to these odd yet important parts.
This past week, I took notice of a hole in one of my work socks and looked closer to realize my big toenail was the culprit. For those of you who see feet as disgusting, now is the time to put down this story and walk away. I agree, feet can be really gross but sometimes you have to address the issues head on to move to a better place, and that’s what I decided to do. Yes, my big toenail had worked through the sock by rubbing against the steel toe portion of my work boot. Without hesitation, my wife suggested I go for a pedicure.
Right….a pedicure…for me.
I wasn’t sure how to take that. Of course, my instinct was to just go and give myself a quick trim. However, her suggestion had an undertow of, “Really you need more than a set of Rite-Aid clippers and sandpaper this time”.
Instantly, I had a flashback to Jim Carey in Dumb and Dumber sitting in a nail salon while the attendant pulled out an industrial grinder and in a shower of sparks and dust worked his claw-like nails into normalcy. I recalled that Indian man in The Guinness Book of World Records, holding out his hands showing the world his longest brown and twisted specimens of hardened protein. I thought of a room full of Asian women all laughing at my feet and chattering in a foreign language.
I was not entirely keen on the idea of going to get a pedicure, but I was not put off by her suggestion, either. So, without an appointment and with a deep reservation, I pulled into the parking lot staring up at the nail salon sign this past weekend.
Upon entering, I knew immediately I was a fish out of water.
In a room that smelled like an automobile paint booth decorated with wind chimes and foreign writings I was greeted and asked what I needed done. I swallowed and quietly squeaked out the word manicure and immediately corrected myself and said pedicure. The Asian gentleman that greeted me now looked as if I were speaking a foreign language and he asked again what I needed. At this point all the women in the waiting area had put down the latest copy of People and Women’s Day because there was a bigger story unfolding and as much as I wanted to turn and head back out the door, I was trapped and needed to see this through. “Pedicure”, I said again, a little louder and was directed to wait with those now smirking and returning to their magazines.
As I mustered the courage to look up from the square of floor tile I was trying to sink into, I noticed all the others around me had on flip flops or open toed shoes, not steel toe work boots. I was a fish out of water, flopping inside.
My wait was not as long as it felt and my nail specialist Tiffany kindly and swiftly moved me from the room of silent condemnation to an elevated massage recliner poised over a foot tub of aqua colored bubbling water. Unsure if it was toilet bowl cleaner or an industrial degreasing agent I moved closer hearing Tiffany say, ‘It’s ok, it’s ok, it helps soften and massage”.
There are certain things we feel obliged to apologize over before they happen, and while I have never apologized to my mechanic for having really dirty brakes before they were replaced, nor for the black lab hairs in the upholstery before having my truck detailed, I immediately made excuses and asked for pardon for the condition of my feet. As I unlaced my boots, I knew what was about to emerge from my socks may be cause for my dismissal. Affirming that it was not a problem, Tiffany began the intermittent process of trimming and soaking, sanding and smoothing.
Amazingly, I didn’t feel judged, condemned, or that the foot police were going to have me removed from her workstation. My concern of women laughing at me in a foreign language while holding my feet at arm’s length by a pair of metal tongs evaporated. In quite opposite fashion I felt cared for and in a unique way as if I were her only customer; her solo goal to resurrect my feet from the calloused induced hell of work boots. So while the massage chair rolled on the warming blue water bubbled and Tiffany worked her magic with a cuticle pusher, I sank into the atmosphere and had a moment of understanding and thanks.
It is amazing that folks like Tiffany are honestly willing, to see beyond the disgusting and gross parts of who we are and draw us in allowing us to feel comfortable and accepted. Through her honest conversation and connection to her customers, there is a great lesson in customer service and what it means going above and beyond.
If a contractor with gnarly toes could be made to feel comfortable enough to push past the unrealistic preconceived ideas of what an hour at the nail spa would be, it only proves that there is a right way to do business.
I have attended sales seminars and sales fairs, sales conferences and read books on successful selling. For the millions of dollars that are spent on the topic of business each year and for the millions that are spent on business degrees in universities across the country, my twenty-five dollar pedicure proved of more value than any of these.
The pedicure was eye-opening, mentally refreshing, and, for a fish out of water, I was able to leave with a host of lessons as to how we should all treat one another. My trip to the nail spa was so much more than I expected. Leaving with a revived spirit and fresh feet, it proved once again that listening to my wife is far better than having holes in my socks.
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Photo credit: Pixabay