( Photo: Craig Stadnyk )
I’m a man’s man. I like barbecuing, peeing standing up and the idea of pickup trucks. I hate light beer, scarves and puma shoes. That’s why the simple idea of getting a pedicure made me sick to my stomach. It’s not that I’m a chauvinist, but rather that my comfort strike zone is quite small.
I held off making my appointment for days because I felt it was wrong. Why the hell would I want somebody working on my feet? It’s the lowest of lows. I had nightmares of 16th century kings getting pampered by their overtly attractive servants.
I finally summed up the courage to take the walk of shame to the telephone room in the St. Patrick’s building. Trendy Nails was the place I had settled on. I figured nobody I knew would be walking around Billings Bridge. I did, however, feel like asking the lady on the phone “if they did men,” but I decided my gravelly, monotone voice was hint enough.
My girlfriend was extremely jealous the day of the appointment, which just made me more angry.
“Do you think I’m looking forward to this?,” I yelled in exasperation. I wanted to reneg on my commitment. My hand-cut toenails were hip enough without the expertise of Trendy Nails, I reasoned. Besides, no guys have chic nails anyway.
“That’s not true,” my girlfriend said. “All those big-shot bankers on Bay Street get manicures.”
I quickly added big-shot bankers to the growing list of things I dislike and skipped down Bank Street to make it to my 3 p.m. appointment on time.
I was greeted by eight dumbfounded smiles and 16 female eyes staring at my all-too-obvious male figure. It reminded me of the stares that accompanied being the only foreigner in the village I taught at in China.
All four customers were perched at tables getting manicures and remained silent. I was pointed to the “peddy” area where they told me to get ready. Begrudgingly, I rolled up my salt-stained jeans and dislodged my shoes and socks and sat in the hefty massage chair.
If I had known there was a massage chair I wouldn’t have worn my bulky, green, out-dated American Eagle sweater. My feet dangled in the basin — exposed. The only treatment I ever gave them was a dose of Lamisil AT for a harsh case of athlete’s foot.
The lady went to work. I didn’t get her name. I was too embarrassed to talk. My feet were getting touched. It was weird.
Gradually, I became slightly more comfortable as the massage chair began to jab at my back. Oily water surrounded my feet. The technician brought out a tool that reminded me of a potato peeler and began hacking off dead skin. I had massive calluses on the side of my big toes that caused her some slight problems. She paused for a moment but eventually figured out a way to eliminate them.
Then she moved onto the nails. All the while I gazed out at the CIBC across the way. The mall’s pedestrian traffic didn’t seem bothered by a man getting a pedicure. I thought to myself “society has progressed.”
I also mistakenly thought the Trendy Nails’ patrons had forgotten I was there. I still hadn’t said a word. I was going to get in and get out without doing anything stupid.
A middle-aged women got up to get her nails dried and just couldn’t resist a tiny verbal joust: “I heard pink’s in style,” she said. The small salon erupted in laughter. I guess they had all been thinking the same thing. “I’m just teasing,” the woman said. “I think more guys should come.”
I nodded in agreement. “It’s not that bad. Just as long as someone I know doesn’t see me,” I said.
Conversation picked up. The ice had been broken, which was a big relief for me. I was some sort of bold hero to these women. To them I was willing to defy social stereotypes and do what was good for my feet. Apparently, Trendy Nails has only serviced nine men.
“My boyfriend won’t even come in here at all,” said one of the shop’s employees. “You should have brought a newspaper or something.”
Just then my eyes met with Brice’s. He was standing out in the concourse gawking at me. My cheeks turned fire-truck red. I had lived with Brice on first Grenville.
“Yo, whatcha doing man?” he said. I was silent and shook my head. He frowned, laughed and then walked away. By this time my feet were finished and my spirits were dower. But I can’t lie — my feet felt really good when I walked up to the counter.
I paid and wondered if I should leave a tip. Who knows what proper etiquette is anyway? I did, thankfully, leave most of my change. I left the store and bought the first manly thing I found: a Harvey’s sirloin burger.
While ripping into the beef topped with extra pickles, I felt I understood some women a little better. They love to feel pampered. Why do most girls go all-out getting dressed up for the bar? Why do they always plan formal parties? I feel women in generally must love the feeling of being put together a lot more than men. A pedicure is pampery. Also, my feet never see the light of day while girls have a multitude of different footwear options that show off the appendage.
Guys, I feel you can stomach a pedicure. I would liken it to having clean sheets. That first night you have clean sheets you feel awesome. But gradually the feeling deteriorates and the novelty is lost. So it all boils down to how often you wash your sheets.