It might be that I have lived my life in a quiet little bubble away from the haughty fray of metro sexual men. It might be that I am far more familiar with the scratch the scrotum, singlet wearing, spitters who love their sport and beer and BBQs, but I don’t believe I know any man who admits to enjoying a PEDICURE. I am happy to be proved wrong!
Steve would be no more inclined to spend a minute or a dollar having someone scrape and paint and coddle his feet than he would be to pulling on a pair of high heels and a skirt and fronting to his rugby club on a Saturday afternoon.
I reckon the land of the PEDICURE might well be the ultimate male female divide.
To spend an hour with someone at ground zero is bliss. I walk in with rough, crooked nailed, tired old slabs of meat and I pirouette out on dainty toes newly sparkling. The scent and the lighting and the comfy chairs – ahhh, and I get to admire the dancing coloured spots until such time as the nails grow and the skin thickens and cracks.
Perhaps it is because the gypsy in me means I spend most of my life barefoot and I consider the coloured nails, shoes. Perhaps it’s because I am a lazy cow who doesn’t enjoy the smell of my own feet. Perhaps it’s because to put your feet up in the capable hands of a nail technician, and enjoy the sensual pleasure of it all is something to be savoured. Whatever the reason, I love it and I reckon men just don’t get it.
C’est la vie