LaShauna's Healing Hands

I had a massage last week, at a clinic on the ground floor of the building where I work. I gave this place a try because of the convenience and the photocopied discount flyer for "LaShauna's Healing Hands." I'll come back for another reason: LaShauna is a kick.

My limited experience with professional massage had caused me to form some stereotypes: soothing water fountains and ethereal music, herbal tea, cool therapists who look like Aveda models and do their best to blend in to the pastel-colored walls. This time, I was greeted with an exclamation from a plump and exhuberant African American woman:

"Girl, nobody done told me you was pregnant!"

And then she rushed up to me and coochy-cooed my belly. Rather than putting me off, her authenticity immediately put me at ease. She commenced to fuss over me like a mother hen, arranging my overgrown torso among many pillows and telling me stories about her own pregnancies. My favorite was about how she got so hungry during labor that she demanded a chicken sandwich be brought to her immediately after she delivered - best chicken she ever ate.