“Dagger toes,” my wife calls me. And she’s right. Many a night I’ve slipped into bed, accidentally scratching her legs thanks to my ever-craggy toenails. Sure, most people’s feet are at best ungainly. But with my hair, calluses, ingrown big toes, fence-climbing scars and stubby plantar warts, she might as well brand me “Frodo feet.”
And let’s be frank: Most guys aren’t raised to pamper themselves in a spa, let alone treat their feet to some love. But with my wife’s welfare in mind, I slinked into Spa Space (161 N. Canal St., 312-466-9585) for a mini-pedicure. My pedicurist Valencia sat me in a padded reclining chair–a whirlpool bath at the base, a remote fit for PlayStation 2 at my right hand. With it, I could adjust the chair’s massage action: A holiday trip to my in-laws loomed, so I turned it up full blast.
The mini-pedicure cost $30 with tip and took just half an hour, which I spent alternately soaking my feet, and having my nails clipped and buffed (I turned down clear polish). My pants rolled up to my knees, Valencia massaged with a grainy eucalyptus scrub, followed by a finishing coat of sweet-smelling lavender cream.
I found this most cleansing, and not only in the bipedal sense. As Valencia pruned worn cuticle and chipped nail, she also listened as I talked about making amends with family in the new year–getting 2004 off on the right foot.
I left Spa Space reluctant to don shoes: My feet hummed like twin engines ready to race.
So how does a pedicure costing roughly twice as much time and money compare? The spa at the Four Seasons Hotel (120 E. Delaware Place; 312-649-2340) offers ankle-and-arch nirvana–this at a facility recently ranked tops among all North American urban spas in a Conde Nast Traveler reader’s survey.
Before the 50-minute treatment ($80 with tip), I was escorted to an exotic, hushed, private waiting room. I poured some raspberry tea, reclined on a long, fluffy couch and pulled the curtains closed around me. Already, I was off to a great start for a Monday morning.
It got better. As my pleasant pedicurist Chang led me to a whirlpool massage chair, she gave me a warm neck pillow stuffed with buckwheat hulls, redolent of cloves and sage. It lulled me into blissful repose.
Chang worked at my feet with the patience and precision of an artist, applying no less than half a dozen oils, lotions and an olive-stone exfoliant. She buffed calluses–and without eliciting a twinge, turned a stubborn big toe into a smooth, shiny arch of clean cuticle and nail.
Then came the fleur’s stone.
Just when I thought my feet had reached the peak of spa satisfaction, Chang brought out a shiny, oval black stone. This “river stone,” as the brochure billed it, was dipped in essential oils and heated. As she rubbed it across the soles of my feet, I searched for words to describe the sensation. Then I found one.
Ahhhhhhhh.
So what will my wife call me when next she sees me slip off socks? “Delicious toes,” I hope.
