black+woman+pedicure

 

Welp, the love affair I’ve had with my nail technician has come to an end.

To avoid a frivolous lawsuit for relentless shade, I will refer to her as “Jenny” for the duration of this post.

The first time Jenny gave me a pedicure it was magical. I could feel the endorphins rushing through my body to the point where I became lost in my happy place and the Commodores began to sing “Zoom” inside my cranial amphitheater.

Jenny took her time. Making sure there wasn’t a hangnail or cuticle that slipped past her attentive eyes.

She massaged my feet and legs as if her hands were anointed with Jesus’ love and amazing grace.

I knew this was something special that I would make last forever.

When it was time to pay, I gave Jenny a $10 tip and her eyes lit up. I’m still not sure if it was because of the amount of the tip or the fact that she was surprised my pigmented behind gave her a tip in the first place.

As the weeks passed, I’d return to Jenny several times for my fantastic pedicures. But, then…something happened.

It started feeling like Jenny was rushing through my pedicures and the TLC I came to know and love was disappearing right before my eyes. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and figured she may have had to leave for an appointment or head to her English class she’s been taking.

But, TODAY….laaawd hammercy! The same thing happened again. She rushed through my pedicure and a few times it actually felt uncomfy. Again, I allowed the God in me to stay focused on the positive parts of my pedi.

Then, Jenny committed the ultimate violation. She jacked up the polish on my big toe and kept it pushing like I wouldn’t notice.

When I brought it to her attention…she simply painted OVER the mishap rather than removing the polish and properly correcting it.

That was the moment I knew it was over for us.

So, I dedicate this post to the good time. Jenny and I shared in that spa chair. But, it’s time for me to move on.

 

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