So here’s is we learn from not speaking up – silent suffering.
The weekend had arrived. I was at the parlour for a pedicure. Directed to a seat, I sat to take my shoes off and dip my feet into a small tub of water that was connected to a heater. The sound of hair dryers, glances from other people and hair getting chopped off; it was a busy weekend at the parlour. That day I experienced something I’ve always experienced before –hot water, feet tickling and a torturous leg massage.
So the pedicure began. My feet which were initially dipped into the water felt it getting warmer by the minute. Five minutes later I started to bear the heat and then finally, I asked for it to be turned off. Funny bit was the heater after being turned off still got hotter. I believe the heater may have accidently not been turned off. I tolerated it for at least another 30 seconds thinking that now I would be asked to take my feet out of the water and start with the pedicure. I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked her to turn off the heater and it was finally turned off. I didn’t twitch, I didn’t shout, I made sure to show no discomfort.
Moving on a bit further, we came to the process of scraping the heel of my feet with a scraper. A feet scraper is for scraping the dead skin off your feet but what it also does is tickle me like crazy. The pedicurist kept scraping off the dead skin until my feet were shining and sparkly. What a child would do at that very moment is jerk her feet away. Instead what I as a proper adult did was sit there like stone. I am invincible and unbreakable. Nothing can hurt, harm or tickle me; is what I kept telling myself. I didn’t twitch, I didn’t shout out loud and burst into laughter, I made sure to show no discomfort.
The tickling torture was over. After a few more steps, the pedicure was done. We moved on further to the part after the pedicure – the leg massage. I wonder why massages are required but if they’re done well, there’s nothing like it. I really do mind being treated like a queen because it just makes me too awkward.
She started to massage my leg and let me remind you, she was a short, thin lady who was about to massage my fat-filled calf muscled legs. One would think she had gentle hands. I for one thought she hated me. Every stroke of massage felt like her hands just came out from laborious prison work. She pressed each part of my leg like squeezing meat out of the mince meat machine or putting sugarcane through the juicer machine. She looked at me every time she went for another stroking massage and I looked away like nothing can break me. I didn’t twitch, I didn’t shout, I made sure to show no discomfort.
After the massage was over, I un-tightened my nerves and sat at ease. I almost felt like she deliberately bruised my legs while maybe thinking about an ex who’d done her wrong.
So that was the end of the pedicure experience which I am glad I don’t have to face for the next few months. I believe I keep my feet pretty clean and safe enough to face the wrath of pedicure again which by the way is supposed to be a relaxing experience. I’ve been told time and again to show my pain so the pedicurist won’t massage my leg too hard. I do completely the opposite! Put on a blank face – my mask, I bear the pain. I am too polite to let the other person know what they’re subjecting me to. After the pedicure is done, I say job well done with a tip.