More reflections on reflexology
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Reflections on reflexology (the first post)
Just when I think I know Cleveland, I decide to go to a section of town that I've either never visited or of which I have only a passing memory. The location of Lipstick and Razorblades, by the Superior Viaduct, is a location that exists in my memory.
There was a time when I was very involved in the court scene, and the dating scene, and the going out scene. And during that time, I attended a few events on the Viaduct, which, I believe, could only be used with all kinds of permits. This is maybe 1989-1990ish. I remember a fundraiser out there for a judge, on a beautiful summer evening, a wind off the lake so gentle that it lifted the bangs off my forehead just enough to make me feel like I was in a glamour photo shoot, but not enough to make me worry that I looked weather-beaten.
So, when I approached that location, on my way to my reflexology appointment, images poured into my consciousness as steadily as the ever-present rain during the beginning of this week. I smiled. It was fun to remember that time, those times.
Still, I clutched my directions, printed off of the Exploring Wellness website, with excellent photos of the street signs that proved key in keeping me on track. Spaces Art Gallery? Check. Ruddy red door with the number 2206? Yup - just went past it before going through a gate. I pulled up in between two cars (but not onto the metal plates, as demanded by the signs) and dashed out.
The exterior of the building that houses the salon looks abandoned: it could use new paint, it could use some gloss, it could use some straight edges. But none of that would matter. Because once you enter the structure, follow the signs, descend some stairs, and follow a couple of more signs, you find yourself in an open space, painted in warm colors, resounding with music (not too loud or too soft) and the noises of, well, a salon. Chit chat, hair dryer, clipping. Light enters through several large windows along one wall - I'm not sure which direction they face - I was a bit turned around, but I'm going to guess southeast.
The dark, worn yet shiny wooden floors reminded me of post and beam homes and the vastness of the space, of a chalet or lodge. Couches and other furniture beg you to sit for a while as you take in the activity in the salon, or read. You'd never know from McKala's welcome that I'd arrived several minutes late (who? me?). I might as well have been early, so unrushed did she make me feel.
We walked through a couple of rooms and entered a square-shaped space with one chair raised on a platform and another one that turned out to be like a Lazy-Boy recliner a few feet away. Lit candles and subtle fragrances lured me into the room like Pied Piper's music.
I honestly don't know how long the session lasted - 45 minutes? But it involved soaking my feet in wonderfully warm water, after which, McKala led me to the recliner.
Now, I can be still and quiet. Really, I can. And you would think that this would have been one of those times. However, I found the entire setting, from finding the location to the never having had reflexology done before, so new and intriguing and delightful, I couldn't stop asking questions. Even when I tried. But it made the session all the more fun and addictive.
McKala pressed on different points. I would grimace. She would tell me how the place that she touched was connected to some other part of my body. But my favorite part? When she applied tremendous pressure to certain points and she'd check to make sure it was okay. My secret is that I love deep tissue massages or myofascial techniques, so the more pressure applied the better. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
I was sad when it ended but now I'm eager to go back. Frankly, as much as I hate to say it, and I don't know the industry or market here at all in this industry, but I would have paid at least 50% more if it cost that. It was worth at least as much as all the co-pays I make for that electric current physical therapy.
Just when I think I know Cleveland, I decide to go to a section of town that I've either never visited or of which I have only a passing memory. The location of Lipstick and Razorblades, by the Superior Viaduct, is a location that exists in my memory.
There was a time when I was very involved in the court scene, and the dating scene, and the going out scene. And during that time, I attended a few events on the Viaduct, which, I believe, could only be used with all kinds of permits. This is maybe 1989-1990ish. I remember a fundraiser out there for a judge, on a beautiful summer evening, a wind off the lake so gentle that it lifted the bangs off my forehead just enough to make me feel like I was in a glamour photo shoot, but not enough to make me worry that I looked weather-beaten.
So, when I approached that location, on my way to my reflexology appointment, images poured into my consciousness as steadily as the ever-present rain during the beginning of this week. I smiled. It was fun to remember that time, those times.
Still, I clutched my directions, printed off of the Exploring Wellness website, with excellent photos of the street signs that proved key in keeping me on track. Spaces Art Gallery? Check. Ruddy red door with the number 2206? Yup - just went past it before going through a gate. I pulled up in between two cars (but not onto the metal plates, as demanded by the signs) and dashed out.
The exterior of the building that houses the salon looks abandoned: it could use new paint, it could use some gloss, it could use some straight edges. But none of that would matter. Because once you enter the structure, follow the signs, descend some stairs, and follow a couple of more signs, you find yourself in an open space, painted in warm colors, resounding with music (not too loud or too soft) and the noises of, well, a salon. Chit chat, hair dryer, clipping. Light enters through several large windows along one wall - I'm not sure which direction they face - I was a bit turned around, but I'm going to guess southeast.
The dark, worn yet shiny wooden floors reminded me of post and beam homes and the vastness of the space, of a chalet or lodge. Couches and other furniture beg you to sit for a while as you take in the activity in the salon, or read. You'd never know from McKala's welcome that I'd arrived several minutes late (who? me?). I might as well have been early, so unrushed did she make me feel.
We walked through a couple of rooms and entered a square-shaped space with one chair raised on a platform and another one that turned out to be like a Lazy-Boy recliner a few feet away. Lit candles and subtle fragrances lured me into the room like Pied Piper's music.
I honestly don't know how long the session lasted - 45 minutes? But it involved soaking my feet in wonderfully warm water, after which, McKala led me to the recliner.
Now, I can be still and quiet. Really, I can. And you would think that this would have been one of those times. However, I found the entire setting, from finding the location to the never having had reflexology done before, so new and intriguing and delightful, I couldn't stop asking questions. Even when I tried. But it made the session all the more fun and addictive.
McKala pressed on different points. I would grimace. She would tell me how the place that she touched was connected to some other part of my body. But my favorite part? When she applied tremendous pressure to certain points and she'd check to make sure it was okay. My secret is that I love deep tissue massages or myofascial techniques, so the more pressure applied the better. Loved it, loved it, loved it.
I was sad when it ended but now I'm eager to go back. Frankly, as much as I hate to say it, and I don't know the industry or market here at all in this industry, but I would have paid at least 50% more if it cost that. It was worth at least as much as all the co-pays I make for that electric current physical therapy.
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