Musings at the Mall

On Friday, after having a conversation about how gnarly Brian's toes looked in Friday-casual flip flops, I decided to treat myself to a much needed pedicure this weekend. I've been dying to get a suped-up pampering experience at my favorite spa in the area, Pia Esthetics in Westchase (also in South Tampa, but I'm closer to snobby Westchase), but my wallet doesn't like the sound of $45 for a pedicure as much as it does the $20 semi-shady jobs at the mall. I embarked on mission pedicure today while my boyfriend worked his annoying Sunday shift at the place "where shopping is a pleasure," and working is a bitch. I decided to go to the mall near where I work, because it happens to be one of the few malls in the area to have an Old Navy, and I happen to have a gift card for there. Why not spend some free money? Anyway, my plan was laid out: Go to the mall, hit up Starbucks for a Grande-Iced-Non-Fat-Upside-Down-Caramel-Macchiato (no joke) and then head to the nail place. The spa pedicure at the place in the mall is $20, which for me is do-able. It'll come as no surprise, I'm sure, that no one in this place speaks English. So I get directed to a pedicure throne like I'm a 747 taxiing down the runway (all they were lacking was the orange stick-thingies) and the woman proceeds to get down to business. I specified a spa pedicure before sitting down because that usually includes bath salts in the water and some foot massaging or other stuff that they justify charging an extra few bucks for. Whatever, just do your voodoo, lady. About 5 minutes in, she looks up at me and starts gesturing and saying something that I haven't the foggiest understanding of. She points to the jar of salts and finally says, "you want?" Yes, I want. Proceed.

Forty five minutes later it's all over. My tootsies are polished and callus free, under a drying lamp and little non-English speaking lady is at the desk writing up my check-out ticket. She brings it over. "That be firty dolla, maam." Firty? 3-0? How did the price jump ten fucking 'dolla'? Then it hit me... The salts. That's why she was asking me about the salts. DAMN! I was duped! Duped by Charlie, I tell ya. So I hand her my card and she says, "firty...?" with an expectant look in her eye. I said, "no, make it firty-five." Laugh. Go ahead. Yes I said firty. And yes I did mean to give her a tip. She has to touch feet for a living, for Godssake. Can you imagine? Ick.

She comes back with my card and the slip for me to sign. It's for firty dolla. Even. No tip line to enter a tip amount. I sign the slip silently and hand it back to her. I have no cash in my wallet. As soon as she walks away, I get up and leave the salon. I don't feel guilty. I call it bad pedicure karma. She shouldn't have duped me into $10 worth of worthless bath salts. There's your tip, lady. I tried.

Incendentially, I'll be going to Pia for my next pedicure. It would've cost me the same amount for my Starbucks and pedicure as it would for the Espresso Pedicure there. And they give you a cup of espresso while they work on your little piggies!