Feet First

We go together about every two months, on a Sunday morning, my dad and I. An early trip to my nail salon before it opens to the public, when the only traffic moving past us consists of cars headed toward church or diners or doughnuts. My favorite technician, Jenny, drives 45 minutes from her home to greet us at 7:30 a.m. so that my father can have a pedicure without anyone else around.

I can't remember exactly when we started this, but I do recall that the first time I brought my father - some time after my mother died - he was, at 85, still raw from losing her, and not talking much. I noticed that his lower "paws" needed some attention, and asked if he'd like to try a pedicure. He refused, but I kept asking, and then promised total privacy after arranging an early morning visit with Jenny.

From the start, she was in charge - she called him "Daddee" immediately, with the emphasis on the "dee," helped him into a chair, and tended to him as she trimmed nails, put hot towels on his legs, and - this is my favorite part - told him what a great daughter I am. And now my father, who loves routine, breaks my heart (in a good way) every time we have our pedi date. He hurries in, greets Jenny with a huge hello, grabs a magazine and heads to "his" chair... and we sit side by side: daughter and dad, feet immersed, in this unusual place to be connected.

© 2011 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie