For those of you still suffering from my last abysmal pack of lies, my advice:

Cut Up at the Nail Shop!
Boys and girls, screw the haircut, go for a pedicure.
The day after the H4 Campout, I carefully detached my lacerated legs (this part's more or less true, to wit - Wet Spot's photo) from the bedsheets, and went to work. Worked my ass off. Deserved Something Better... Went down to my local nail shop, which is conveniently wedged between Ben and Jerry's and a gay bar on the seawall. I got a scoop of vanilla - the kind with the bean specks showing, drowned it in a shot of Priscilla's Ouzo, and stepped into the incense and acetate.
One stop shopping.

For any virgins: the workers are always Vietnamese. They always say "can I help you?" before the door closes and you are surrounded by air conditioning. Then they look at the Madame(don't call her that, I made it up), who speaks English and will carry out the rest of the transaction. "Pedicure, please". "Okay, you pick your color." The wall is alive with half filled or topped off bottles of every garish and Sunday-go-to-Meetin' color of nail lacquer, occurring naturally on the planet or not. I always go for Perriwinkle (yes, Heartache, that's how it's spelled). It bleaches to thundercloud blue in the Galveston sun.

Fellas, you should thank Bob Dobbs for the fact there ain't no Sports Nails places, all hung up with TVs and John Madden. The last thing you want to do is distract yourself from the nimble and soothing hands of the pedicure Sensei (don't call her that, I made it up). She may be anywhere from 16 to 60, or she may be a man so call ahead and request a female technician - the men are less generous with their touch. This is not a job, it's a calling.

So this particular day, I wondered what the young woman looking up from my feet thought of my multiple wounds. She didn't blink an eye, until time for the massage. There is always a massage. After you soak in a foot Jacuzzi, and the necessary cuticles and nails are cut, cleaned and buffed, after the Sensei shaves the dead cells from your calluses into a little pile of curled skin on the floor, and uses a synthetic pumice to smooth out the rest, she squirts a copious serving of House Lotion on your shins, and works you over from the knees to the toes for any where from 3 to 15 minutes. This is where the real fun begins when you're all hashed up.

The initial sting of the lotion gives way to an overall burning sensation that stays with you the rest of the day. Typically, the Sensei pulls your feet (or hands, if it's a manicure) close enough to frotage her chest... I always wonder if this is intentional, and try to pretend I don't notice. It happens every time. She looks up to see if you like the massage. "Does this hurt?" She queries inoccently, knowing that the lotion is diving into my open cuts. "How you get this?" I tell her I'm a fugitive. Has she seen my picture? She has no idea what I am talking about, and scours my legs clean with sea salt, while she asks about the Buddhist tattoo on my thigh. Excruciating Karma. "It's the Tibetan symbol for (AAGH) Om(mm-my God!)" Glad I had the Ouzo.

Now if I were a guy, I'd forego the Perriwinkle, and just ask for a buff job. Yep. She will take a fine-grained paste and place a little on each toenail. Then she'll rub each one briskly with a chamois covered bar. They will pique to a high-gloss, polish free. The Sensei will put your shoes on... on you, that is. She'll discretely take your credit card, allow you private time to write your tip, and wish you a wonderful day and the other Senseis will say in unison, like sirens from the rocks, "Please Come back!" and you will feel they are sincere. As you leave, the ubiquitous fat Buddha, garnished with real fruit and burning incense, smiles "On-on."