I put out a call for tips on my personal website, Facebook.com. And it turns out that all kinds of people get pedicures. My sister gets them, even calls them an essential part of her health care as a runner. She got her first in the last weeks of training for this past New York City marathon, getting her callouses scrubbed off before blisters formed underneath them. My brother gets them—feet are another part of the body, and what’s wrong with taking care of them? My elected delegate gets them—in our district of course, because we should all support our local businesses. People get them as a treat, as self-care, for the massage, for the break, for all kinds of reasons. And seriously, aren’t I the one being the jerk, acting like there’s something necessarily servile about being a nail technician? It’s a job, and like any job, the problem isn’t the work, it’s the working conditions. So there I was, cash for a hefty tip, wandering into a place on Light Street because that’s where I happened to be, and I heard on the internet that Lorde got her nails done here when she was in town. Fine—that’ll do.