Agony of Da Feet

Continued

"Really?"

"Yep."

Soon as those words left her lips, I knew what would come next:

"I have an appointment this weekend." She looked at my feet.

"And since you like stabbing me with those pitchforks, I'll make one for you, too. And don't punk out."

Lisa had jokes, but I couldn't argue. Since I failed to trim my nails that night, those daggers definitely looked like Spartan weapons.

So I did what I was told, but determined to safeguard my virility.

I'm a man, damn it!

I stepped inside the beauty salon, chest-out, chin-up, reminding myself I'm still a dude of dudes while bobbing my head to a jazzy percussion from the salon's surround sound. Five female customers sat inside, either waiting their turn or "beautificating" their nails or toes. Stench of nail polish remover flattened my nostrils, so strong it turned my stomach.

I adjusted to the vapors, but my head mimicked a knee-jerk reaction once I noticed a man sitting across from a woman gettin' his manicure on, chit-chattin' about whatever. Another gentleman sat in a leather massage chair, feet dipped in water while reading a Vogue magazine. Chillin'.

What the hell? Manhood oozing away before my eyes or what?

Agony of Da Feet Continued pg. 4 of 4