I’m not one of those macho guys that swaggers about spouting obscenities with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Nor am I overly feminine, preferring Bruce Willis movies and a quick shower to Julia Roberts movies and long bubble baths.
No, I am somewhere in the middle. A happy medium, you might say.
But I have my limits.
So a while back when a nice lady named Linda Tunstall gave my wife a certificate for a free pedicure and asked her to give it to me, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
“A pedicure,” I asked her. “Isn’t that like a manicure, only with your toes?”
“Yeah, Einstein, that’s a pedicure,” my lovely wife answered in that special way of hers.
The thing is, I give very little attention to my feet. My feet don’t particularly stink nor do they require any specialized care. No pampering, nursing or anti-fungal ointments needed.
Like the ancient caveman that I evolved from (and occasionally revert back to), I could probably live my life barefooted and be reasonably happy, as long as society was jiggy with the idea and I avoided concrete and pavement during the Arizona summer.
So I wasn’t sure if I actually wanted one of these suspiciously girly-sounding pedicures, because my feet have survived 51 years of unspecified abuse and, I must say, they look pretty good. Not overly hairy. No yellowing nails. No hammer toes. In fact, my toes are oddly monkey-like. I can pick things up pretty easily with them and could probably be a successful coin counter if my arms were someday blown off by a kitchen explosion or a mishap with my weed whacker.
That and the fact that I just don’t have a lot of free time during the day to run about having my toes massaged and painted up like some hussy. Perish the thought.
Okay, and maybe I was a little scared. My wife kept accusing me of being scared, but I refused to admit that I was, although probably not for the reasons she may have thought.
I’ve just never been comfortable in beauty salons. All that estrogen, combined with the smell of peroxide and nail polish, is like kryptonite to men.
Plus, that is women’s territory. Like the lingerie section at Walmart and those crazy female restrooms without wall urinals, the beauty parlor is women’s territory. If we cross that threshold, we may be doomed to eternal damnation in a hell that includes curlers in our hair, blow dryers, lip stick and yes, pedicures.
Of course, there’s no man who can resist proving his wife wrong, so I finally crossed that thin, blond-dyed line. I made the appointment for the pedicure.
The thing is, it was an incredible experience. It was very relaxing, yet stimulating. My toes were singing after Linda finished with them and my feet were indeed happy.
“You want your nails painted?” Linda asked after I inquired about how long the toe pampering session would last.
“Only if you can paint the Dallas Cowboys’ logo on my toenails,” I said. Hey, I have my limits.
So thank you, Linda—and all women for that matter—for allowing me a small glimpse into your world.
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Randy Hartless is Executive Director of the Parker Area Chamber of Commerce, columnist and regular contributor on KLPZ 1380am.