Last week, I took a personal day. I shopped the boutiques on Third Ave., treated myself to no sugar-added Moose Tracks at Sedutto, and passed over my usual mani/pedi joint for Mimi’s Nail & Spa on First and 80th. There’s nothing so special about Mimi’s – from the outside, it looks like another run of the mill mani/pedi place where “spa” means “pedicures in green gelatinous goo accompanied by sub-par back rubs.” I went there because, after a horrible mani/pedi at Dashing Diva, I was weary of overpaying, but still wanted some novelty. And novelty I did get!
Enter Kevin, mani/pedi extraordinaire. Normally, I don’t like strange men touching me (bad experience with a male masseuse during my formative tweenhood), but by the time I looked up from my W Magazine, Kevin was sitting before me, ready to go. Annoyed at myself for the oversight, I decided that he looked harmless, that it was just a mani-pedi, and that I was chaste in my black leggings, anyway.
In the early stages of my pedicure, Kevin disarmed me with his kindness and honesty (he called me out for being a pampered “rich kid”). And then came the massage. Little did I know, Kevin was formally trained in massage in his home country of Nepal. I must say that although it was only a foot and leg massage, it was the best massage I’ve had in all of my charmed life. For the price of a neighborhood mani/pedi, I was led into a deep meditative state. And five days later, my nails still haven’t chipped. So not only have I a new mani/pedi-curist, but a new masseuse, as well. And it seems that I’ve kicked my deep-seated fear of strange men. Now that’s what I call a personal day.