by Aimee Le Bec

Created on: February 16, 2007   Last Updated: August 07, 2009

Title: Cosmic Cosmetics: The Spiritual Side of Pedicures
Article: As a child and young woman, my feet were so exquisitely, so painfully
sensitive to human contact that I couldn't bear for them to be touched. I am
particularly ticklish in all respects, so this did not strike me as unusual.
However, on a long Amtrack train ride to Boston from New York one summer, as I

was riding with my friend Ellen to our friend Stacy's Bat Mitzvah, my feet were
so enraged by her incessant and unwelcome tickling that I actually kicked her in
the head, causing her face to slam against the sharp, metal windowsill of the
train, and requiring four stitches (Stacy's father was a doctor and used lovely
lavendar thread).

The guilt and shame that I experienced after "the tickle madness" as I referred
to it led to a deep curiosity and sadness over my feet. As a young woman, I couldn't stand to have lovers touch them. I couldn't get a massage without warning the massage therapist about my extreme sensitivity. It was as if a whole world of love were being denied to my feet, even though they were shapely, strong, independent feet; feet made for walking, swimming, jumping, horseback riding, skating; dancing feet which pointed and flexed with joy.

It wasn't until I discovered pedicures that the life of my feet became infused
with spiritual bliss.

Getting a pedicure, with my long history of shame, guilt, terror and cringing
over someone touching my feet, was the cosmetic equivalent of a stutterer
embarking on a rigorous course in public speaking. I was terrified. I thought
of million excuses why I shouldn't bother. It was costly, superficial. I would
hate it; perhaps kicking the toe technician in the head, thus revisiting shame
and horror upon myself, never to try again.

In my heart, I knew my feet were on the verge of hysteria, starved for attention
like a puppy behind glass at the local pet shop. I decided to jump in with both
feet.

My first pedicure was at a very no-nonsense salon in Los Angeles, in a strip
mall, where, like most strip malls in L.A., the nail salons have donut shops
next door, as a matter of course, as if one couldn't exist without the other.
It's a strange and disconcerting juxtaposition until one realizes how lovely a
glazed donut really can taste after a grueling hour of beauty.

There was an automatic shoulder and back massage mechanism on the plush chair
that I sat in. The small Asian woman before me took my bare feet into her hands
and, without discussing my ticklishness with me, deposited my

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