Becca’s Day Out

Becca and I walked inside the nail salon, which was located in a stripmall that was almost completely obscured by a giant cloud of estrogen.

We were walking across the parking lot when a lady noticed Becca using her white cane. The woman rushed out of the salon to open the door. Although, frankly, I don’t know how this sweet woman managed because her hands were wrapped in tin-foil and Ziploc bags.

We were welcomed into the nail parlor by many smiles.

“This is, literally, so cool,” said the 12-year-old.

“Becca,” I said, “you don’t need to say ‘literally’ after every word.”

“Why not?”

“It’s redundant.”

“I, literally, don’t even know what ‘redundant’ means.”

There were women everywhere, undergoing medieval beautification rituals. Some women’s fingernails were being treated with power sanders. Others had feet submerged in tubs of what appeared to be melted industrial plastic.

“How may we help you?” said the lady cashier.

“I have no idea,” I replied.

She looked at Becca. “Would the young woman like a pedicure?”

“Yes, please,” said Becca.

The woman showed us a menu. “Would you like the deluxe package or the basic French pedicure?”

“We want the el-cheapo package,” I said.

The woman smiled at me, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Soon, Becca was sitting in a ginormous massage chair which had more features than a tactical combat helicopter. Becca liked this chair very much. She set the chair to “knead” and the chair started gyrating.

“You should try this chair,” said Becca. “It’s, literally, blowing my mind.”

“Literally?” I said. “Or figuratively?”

Becca gave me a look.

The pedicurist was named Hai, an older man with grandkids Becca’s age. Hai is a big believer in pedicures. Hai believes Americans have the worst feet in the world because Americans neglect toe health. This is a problem Hai considers a national crisis, registering somewhere on the threat-scale between U.S. tax-code reform and nuclear war. He says we Americans would be better off if we got more pedicures.

Then Hai asked to see my toes. I told him he would have to buy me dinner first.

After he cleaned Becca’s toenails, Hai asked what color of nail polish Becca wanted to use.

“I want red,” she said, flatly. “Adults wear red.”

“Becca,” I pointed out. “You’re twelve.”

“That’s, literally, almost an adult,” she replied.

Although frankly, it was hard to view Becca as an adult inasmuch as her massage chair was currently set to “deep-tissue chop” and it sounded like someone was burping her.

In all fairness, the pedicure was my idea. Namely, because all the females in my life get pedicures. Women are always saying they “need” pedicures, using the same tone men use when they say they “need” a new cordless 20V MAX leaf blower.

My wife, for example, loves pedicures. She gets them before every special occasion, such as weddings, anniversaries, the onset of daylight saving, etc.

When Becca’s pedicure was finished, her toes were glossy red. All the ladies in the shop gathered around Becca to admire her feet.

Whereupon Hai looked at my shoes. “Would you like me to do your feet next?”

“Let’s wait until the second date,” I said.

Afterward, Becca’s toenails were still wet, so she had to walk across the parking lot wearing disposable plastic sandals and sponge dividers between her toes. She held my hand as I helped her into the truck.

Becca said, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t blind so I could see stuff. Can you tell me how my feet look?”

So I inspected her little-girl toes and described them to her. “Becca,” I said, “your toenails look almost as lovely as you do.”

The 12-year-old kissed my forehead and said, “I, literally, knew you were going to say that.”