Thursday afternoon, I decided my feet needed some serious help. The winter and my barefoot-ways had taken their toll on my piggies–I didn’t even want to be in the same room as them, let alone bed. So I decided to suck it up and spend the $20 for a pedicure.
As any female knows, the only place you’ll find a $20 pedicure are the places run by Vietnamese folks who speak very broken English (but do a great job!), so that’s what I sought around Buckland Hills. The ladies were great (asking what kind of Asian I was) and I was just about to head to the dryer when a man in his late 40s (maybe early 50s) came in. There was a flurry of Vietnamese between Lee, who was doing my feet, and another woman up front (we’ll call her Number 2).
While he was having his feet done by Lee, I noticed she was working at warp speed and had her head turned toward me (I felt self -conscious like I had done something wrong). Then as she walked him up front, I got the impression she just didn’t like him. He inquired with Number 2 about massages and she said, uncomfortably, “No, try mall!” As soon as he paid and left, all hell broke loose.
Number 2, in her broken English, began to explain to me that he had come in and she noticed something hanging below the hemline of his shorts: “A PEE-NEH! He show his pee-neh! No undah-thing.”
It took me a few minutes to realize that the dude had no underroos and had been flapping in the breeze. “To each is own,” I thought at first, but it got better. Lee came flying up and explained that several times he had hiked up his shorts while in the pedicure chair–further exposing his manparts to poor Lee who looked traumatized and disgusted. Apparently, Mr. Johnson had also been poking down below his shorts to say hello while he was paying, while he was RIGHT NEXT TO ME. Luckily, I’m oblivious. “It was wight dey-ah! In yo face! HIS PEE-NAH! You no see?!”
She explained that while she was doing his feet, averting her eyes in an attempt to avoid the display, she remembered that he had come in last spring. He was only wearing white boxers, no actual shorts…and she hadn’t noticed ’til a customer told one of her coworkers who shouted it to her. And once again, there was Mr. Happy! She had gone home and told her husband who said she should have called the police. As horrifying as the story was, she then proceeded to twist quickly at the waist and shout, “Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong!” as her makeshift pee-nah shook in the breeze…and I almost lost my shit.
I told them that next time, one of them should do his pedicure (with a blindfold on) while someone else goes into the waxing room and calls the cops since he’s probably done this at all the nail salons in the area. I mean, it really kills a bunch of fetishes at the same time: Asian, foot, and exhibitionism.
So, anyone going to get a pedicure in the Manchester area–be on the look out. And have your cell phones ready to alert the police so as to keep the rest of us safe and sound while getting our feet de-funked. Consider this not only a humorous and horrifying story, but a Public Service Announcement.