By SCOTT SAALMAN
Scaramouch
I painted my toenails last month.
A first for me.
Technically, I didn’t paint them. A licensed pedicurist did. It’s best to leave the painting to the professionals . . . walls . . . cars . . . and now, toes.
I’m still processing the paint job.
No regrets, mind you.
Just mentally sorting out why I did what I did.
For starters, it seemed like a fun thing to do, something different, with my wife, Brynne, on her 50th birthday.
We sat beside each other in matching massage chairs while our personal pedicurists trimmed our toenails, cut our cuticles, descaled our scales, and buffed the bottoms of our feet, the latter tickling me to the point that I had to cover my mouth to stifle an embarrassing, snorty cackle.
Our pedicurists combatted our calluses, soaked our feet in sea salt, applied lotion to our legs, and massaged them. A heavenly lavender scent enveloped us. Hot towel wraps soothed our calves.
Then my pedicurist popped the BIG QUESTION, the one I knew was coming when we entered the spa: “What color toenail polish would you like?”
As far as pedicures go, this wasn’t, as they say, my first rodeo. It was my second rodeo. Last winter, I went with Brynne for our first-ever couple’s pedicure, which also marked my first pedicure ever. It was a bold move for me. Fifty-eight years without anyone touching my toes. As far as I knew, none of my buddies had undergone a pedicure. If they had, they hadn’t divulged it, probably pressured their wives to a vow of secrecy, and wore shoes to hide the evidence.
My friend Trina told me about her husband Terry letting their daughters paint his toenails years ago. Unfortunately, he forgot about the toddler toe art. Terry fights wildfires for a living. Sometimes, the crew might have to shower together. Yes, he caught some heat over his pretty toes.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t consider myself a trailblazer. Plenty of men get their toes polished and painted. I just don’t know any personally. I read online that the pandemic drove more men to try it, a fun way to pass time when isolated with a partner. Imagine if Jack Torrance on The Shining had simply let Wendy paint his toenails, he might not have ended up a human popsicle.
During my first pedicure last winter, I was asked the same question, “What color toenail polish would you like?” It came as a surprise. I didn’t know toe paint was part of the pampering. I passed on the polish proposal faster than you can say toe jam. The dorsal fin of the SOCIAL NORM SHARK breached the surface and kept me from taking a deeper dive on the wild side. Treating my tootsies up to the point of actually breaking the seal on a bottle of toenail paint suddenly seemed to be daring enough for one day. That someone wanted to paint my toes had well exceeded my already stretched comfort zone. I basically bolted for the door.
I felt ashamed for worrying about what other people thought about what I did with my toes.
So, yes, near the end of my second pedicure, I was prepared for the return of the BIG QUESTION: “What color toenail polish would you like?” Forget that it was Brynne’s 50th birthday; facing that question again was the main reason I had returned. It was redemption time.
Instead of maneuvering from my massage chair and eyeing the exit, I pointed my thumb “hitchhiker style” at Brynne and answered, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
I was determined to get my toes painted, to defy the norm, to stop conforming, to be my own man. Judge me and be damned. I was tired of toeing the line.
With foam separators between my toes, I knew there was no turning back. I was actually going through with it!
Both pedicurists seemed surprised. Apparently, a man in their massage chairs was a rarity. Brynne’s pedicurist recalled a male customer who requested a polish but quickly assured all customers and employees in the spa that he was still “ALL MAN” . . . whatever that means.
The pedicurist proceeded to paint my toes. It was too late to get cold feet.
Bright red – if you must know.
Photo provided
A hue somewhere between Fire Engine Red and Cherry Bomb. Secretly, I branded my color of choice Lillian Lips, for it matched my grandma Lillian’s Technicolor lips that sought me out like a heat-seeking missile when I was a kid, leaving no time to duck. My cheeks carried the Lillian Lips seal of approval up until bath time.
It has been three weeks now since Brynne’s birthday, and I’m still surprised each time I put on or remove my socks and see my spa treated toes. When I glance down in the shower and see my painted toes, I can’t help but think that I’m standing in someone else’s feet . . . a creepy thought.
Still, seeing my happy feet brings a bit of joy to my otherwise mundane days.
Next time, maybe I’ll go for a crazier color scheme, really loosen up, give those pedicurists something to really talk about.
Yes, there will be a next time, for I’m a man comfortable in his own feet.
Contact: scottsaalman@gmail.com. Buy Scott’s books on Amazon.
Photo provided
