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
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