The Day Spa Years
Every Wednesday, I become someone else's problem
I walk into my living room, which has been transformed into a makeshift day spa, and I'm immediately greeted by two entrepreneurs who see me coming from a mile away. They've got towels draped over the couch arms, bottles of nail polish arranged like a rainbow, a predatory gleam in their eyes that would make a used car salesman proud.
"Welcome to our day spa!" my youngest announces, all business despite the fact she’s wearing a flowing princess gown. "Do you have an appointment?"
I do not have an appointment. I never have an appointment. But somehow, they always manage to squeeze me in.
This is how I spend my Wednesday mornings: getting pedicures from my daughters. And before you start picturing some enlightened modern dad who's comfortably in-tune with his feminine side, let me be clear: I used to let them do manicures too. Until people started giving me looks that suggested I’d forced them to bear witness to some mid-life crisis/gender-norm rebellion. Vanity won. The fingernails had to go.
But the toes? The toes stay.
My eldest daughter approaches her art methodically and precisely, someone who colored inside the lines from the moment she first held a Crayola. Any stray mark would cause the kind of world-ending despair that only makes sense in childhood. But something magical happens when a bottle of nail polish enters the picture. This perfectionist suddenly becomes an abstract expressionist, slathering the stuff on and caring not a whit about how much ends up on my toenails versus the surrounding real estate. It's the lone area where her meticulousness serves a different purpose: speed over artistry.
The youngest takes the opposite approach. For her, nail painting is an elevated art form. This girly-girl spends extra time each morning selecting the perfect outfit, using her innate sense of color matching to keep coordinated with her perfectly painted fingers and toes. And her preference for heels over sneakers already has my wallet bracing for the teenage years. Every day brings a new hairstyle - pigtails, ponytails, braids, and other elaborate arrangements that require a cosmetology degree to style. Fashion worship defines her approach to my toes, bringing that same reverence to each pedicure session. Constant experimentation with new color combinations comes naturally. Alternating toes? No problem. Intricate patterns with gem inlays? Even better.
The whole thing began when she was about five, maybe just before. She'd joined my wife at her nail appointment and was treated to her first manicure. She left the spa transformed, like she'd discovered fire or the perfect shade of pink. It evolved naturally from there, the way great traditions do. Just two kids being kids and wanting to play Day Spa.
But this isn't just dress-up. No, no. This is theater.
I get to play a different character each week. Sometimes I'm the chatty regular who wants to know about my nail techs’ families and their weekend plans. Other times I'm the difficult customer who complains about the temperature of his complimentary cucumber water and demands face time with the manager. Or the guy who's never been to a spa and needs everything explained to him like he's visiting from another planet.
"Do you have kids?" my youngest will ask, fishing for information about herself while applying a base coat with the concentration of a surgeon.
"I do," I'll say, playing along. "Two daughters, actually. They're about your age."
"Oh, how nice! What are they like?"
"Well, one of them thinks she runs a spa in our living room, and the other one acts like she's the CEO of a small business empire."
They compete to see who can upsell me the most. My youngest tries to upgrade me with pedicure add-ons like paraffin waxing and sugar scrubs. The eight-year-old welcomes me and handles checkout, sells me products I don't need, and books my next appointment with the efficiency of one who's watched her mother manage her own day spa. And she always ensures I've 'tipped out' my nail tech. And her.
Watching their personalities emerge through this little ritual is my favorite. My eldest, who's naturally artistic in every other area of her life, gravitates toward the business end. She especially loves dealing with me when I'm being a difficult customer, offering free services to smooth things over, talking me down like a police negotiator. My six year-old keeps her head down, sphinx-like in her concentration, completely absorbed in creating the perfect pedicure with whatever new color combination she's dreamed up that week.
The whole dynamic is fascinating, though I'm probably reading way too much into a couple of kids playing dress-up with their dad's toes. Still, there's something telling about how naturally they've divided the labor - one running the business, the other perfecting her craft.
Last week, my appointment ended abruptly due to a "broken water pipe" in the storage room. I heard them whispering in the corner, plotting something, when suddenly my eldest explained that a plumbing emergency would force the establishment to close early. Turns out they wanted to have an art contest and retasked me to judging their drawings. The busted pipe was their creative solution to an early closing. I had to admire the creativity.
I love that they think I'm buying any of this. The elaborate scenarios, the sudden emergencies, the creative problem-solving - it's all part of what makes these mornings so precious.
What they don't know, what they can't possibly understand at six and eight years old: these Wednesday morning pedicures have become what I most look forward to each week. Not because I particularly enjoy having my toenails painted (though I've grown oddly fond of the ritual), but because of what I see happening in those twenty or thirty minutes.
I see my daughters becoming themselves. I watch them figuring out who they are and how they want to move through the world. There's cooperation and competition, problem-solving and creativity. They're practicing adulthood with a dad who's willing to play along with whatever wild scenario they dream up.
And I see time moving in a way that leaves me both joyous and heartbroken.
I'm fifty….plus. They're six and eight. The math isn't terrible, I'm not ancient by any stretch, but I'm not as young as their friends' parents either. I played sports year-round into my early forties until soft-tissue injuries started piling up. Hobbling around on crutches is for the birds. So I've learned to pick my physical battles and get more creative about connecting with my girls when my body bumps against its limits.
The trampoline I assembled in the backyard? Yeah, I found out real quick that my jumping days are behind me.
So instead of teaching them to do backflips off the diving board or how to slide into second base (spikes up, obviously), I've learned to meet them where they are. In the living room day spa. In the car, where we've banned podcasts and music until we reach our mile-long driveway because car rides are for conversation, games, and jokes.
Age brings an awareness of the clock, a heightened consciousness of lessons that need imparting. They'll stumble into some of the same traps I did, it's inevitable. But if I can spare them a few of those hard lessons, arm them with the tools to navigate an increasingly complex world, and teach them that fearlessness trumps flawlessness, maybe I'll have done my job.
The goals are simple: education they value, always with the understanding that life is the best teacher. Treating people as equals with the understanding that wisdom has no dress code. Cultivating deep appreciation for conversation, food, music and the written word. Exposure to all the things that make for a rich, full life.
But mostly, I want them to know that these moments - these silly, mundane, beautiful moments - matter more than they realize.
Someday, when they're adults with their own children, too busy with their own lives to think much about their old man, I hope these Wednesday mornings will occasionally resurface. The memory that while they were having fun, I was experiencing some of my happiest moments. That their future selves were emerging right there in those living room salon sessions, occasionally making their dad misty-eyed, moments so perfect I wished I could freeze time.
And that my inability to do so made me love them so much more.
Next Wednesday, I'll walk into that living room day spa again. I'll pretend to be surprised that they can fit me in without an appointment. I'll play whatever character they need me to play and let them upsell me on services I don't need and products I'll never use.
And I'll try not to think about how many more Wednesdays we have left before they discover that painting their dad's toenails isn't the coolest way to spend a morning.
For now, these are the day spa years. And right now, this dad is exactly where he needs to be.
Best Dad! ❤️
this is amazing!