I’d been working at a prestigious spa and was just getting settled into the flow. Training took a little longer than I’d hoped, but seeing as how my employment began during the holidays, they wanted to take every precaution to make sure I was ready to handle their varied clientele. Protocols – what a nightmare, but following them ensured consistency, and consistency ensured employment. I moved six hours from my home for that job and absolutely could not fuck up, so there was considerable pressure to keep myself in line with their methods.
I remember the guy plain as day; his face, his haircut, the way he snapped his spearmint gum (I cannot stand spearmint), and his narrow, slightly bowed legs resting on the pedicure throne’s leg rests. Per protocol, I ran down my list of questions before I began working on his feet. “Do you have any sensitivities or injuries that I should be aware of?”
“Yeah,” he said, snapping his spearmint gum, “I don’t like to be touched.”
It was as if my brain, ever-trustworthy for remembering every stinking detail and supplying every stupid thing I’ve let slip in speech, completely shut off. My mind was a pristine, snowy canvas. I didn’t know how to respond, because typically, a person who requests a pedicure knows what a pedicure involves and enjoys the experience. The place I worked was known for having nationwide conferences that included two- or three-night stays with spa packages and other amenities. I didn’t know this guy’s story – Maybe his spa package didn’t include a massage or facial (the most sought-after treatments), or maybe because of his condition, he opted for the least skin contact service. But in order for me to do my job, I would still have to touch him.
Frozen, my mind scrambling for the correct words, I spread a hand towel over his legs.
“Okay…?” I answered, scared to death I wouldn’t say the right thing or handle the situation correctly, which, if I failed handling, would lead to a client complaint and a discussion with my manager, then her manager, then the head-honcho herself about why I chose to handle the situation the way I did and how I might have handled it differently, and then possibly a time-out from doing the work I loved and spending the next week or two dusting shelves in the boutique. Why had this guy agreed to get a pedicure of all things? Whyyyyyyyyyyy?
I ran down the list of all the things I had to do in our allotted time and none could be accomplished without touching him. But most could be done with a towel separating him from me.
I pulled my elbows in and folded my hands, showing zero chances I had not heard him and would not proceed until this matter was discussed.
“Okay, Mr. So-and-so, in response to your sensitivity, I can proceed using as little touch as possible with towels and gloves, or if you prefer, we can terminate the service and find a substitute treatment.”
“Nah,” he shrugged, waving a dismissive hand, silently screaming, ‘go on, ye humble servant.’
Ugh. This guy. Did he not care even the slightest I had just spent the last few precious minutes working on a game plan that would best suit his needs in the least offensive manner? Nope. He was here, which meant he was practically royalty, perched upon the regal pedicure throne, spouting his disdain for being touched when he knew full well what the service involved. But such was my job, and even though he was being a total ass, he had paid good money to be here, and while most days I loved my job and the people I worked with, I really wanted to tell that guy, next time, do us all a favor and just don’t even come to the spa.
It has been years since I’ve encountered (shiver), a non-touchy-feely type of person. If that type of person has a name, I don’t know it, nor would I use the name in discussion. I only know when said person says “don’t touch me,” I go running for the hills.
I AM a touchy-feely type of person.
Growing up, my family and I would sit like Russian dolls on the living room floor massaging shoulders and giving back scratches before bedtime. During family gatherings, my sister-in-law or super-burly basketball and football player cousins will plant themselves in front of me expecting a shoulder massage, and I love it because they know I can help them. I love enveloping bear hugs. I am down for a massage pretty much any time, as long as that person is strong enough to manipulate the dense knots in my shoulders. My work involves touch. I love being able to provide a relaxing massage to the calves and soles of the hardest-working men and women who sit in my chair. I cannot imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t enjoy being touched.
Our lives are enriched by contact – meet someone new, shake hands and the manner in which he/she shakes or squeezes your hand defines a great deal about them. Too vigorous a shake, dude’s wired or a shut-in who hasn’t had physical contact with another person in a really long time. Too lackluster, he really doesn’t care. Squeeze too hard, he’s already on the hunt to find your weaknesses. Thinking about it now, I suppose handshakes could be avoided – I guess it depends on the business you’re in.
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