Ten stubby toes peek out from a tub of bubbling water, spiked with Epsom salts. I’m trying to be a more relaxed person, so I settle into the leather recliner, where mechanical rollers thump my knotted shoulders, but I’m conflicted about pedicures. When a woman in gray scrubs starts working on my leg, I focus on the ambiance. The Grand America Spa in Salt Lake City smells of eucalyptus. Himalayan salt lamps cast a warm amber glow. Soft music plays, all wind chimes and singing bowls. Still, I’m tense. My calf feels like a sack of ropes as she kneads it with coarse lavender exfoliant.
A pedicure can be luxurious but awkward. Whether it’s a warm-weather ritual, a treat for a special occasion, or self-care, it’s always a little embarrassing. My feet aren’t used to being the center of attention. I keep them tucked away, suffocating under socks, imprisoned in shoes, laced in tight to prevent any thought of escape. Or I ignore them altogether. They help me to stand, walk, run, dance and keep my balance as I hike over uneven terrain, but now, as my pedicurist buffs my legs dry, I see my feet and find them oddly alien.
She is a younger woman with long brown hair and does not seem at all unsettled by my odd extremities. I flinch as she clips my toenails, though the soak has left them softer, more pliant. Using a metal tool with a tip curved like a spoon, she pushes back dead skin at the base of each nail, something I might never have noticed. Then she uses tiny scissors to trim off every little excess, like a surgeon finishing her work. This is not some frivolous comfort; it’s maintenance.
Only she’s not finished. She coats my legs in fancy lotion that smells like honey and vanilla, then wraps each one in a warm towel. I swear, I can literally feel my blood begin to circulate. My skin tingles with relief. All the tension I didn’t know I’d been carrying around dissolves as she works the goo into my shins, of all places, then my ankles, then my heels. All the hard, bony spots that don’t usually sense anything but pain. My phone pings, as it does. I shut it off. Whatever’s going on can wait.
I already feel like a new person when she produces a palm-sized glass bottle. Unscrewing a small cap, she pulls out a tiny paintbrush coated with the shimmery white polish I’d chosen earlier. One by one, she shellacs each toenail, meticulously and thoroughly. I wiggle all 10 toes when she’s done and watch how the color catches the light. She says they’ll take 10 minutes to dry, so I slip on my flip-flops and step into the women’s lounge outside the spa, to wait among complimentary green apples and granola. Once I’m good and ready, with a clear mind and my best foot forward, I step out to rejoin the world.
This story appears in the June 2026 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.