prologue: I once owned a bar of soap and only a bar of soap. I did not consider fancy shampoos and conditioners and body scrubs masculine, and when I was younger, especially, I cared deeply about manliness.
I didn’t want anything perfumed to touch my body, for fear that it would instantly turn me into a woman, and then what would I do? Before I learned how to be myself — to listen to the voice inside and not the noise outside — I depended on ready-made identities, and masculinity was one of the first I was ever given. I was also offered “Dallas Cowboy fan” as an identity around that time, too, and I refused.
So for a few years in my twenties, I had a single soap bar in my shower because real men don’t smell like flowers. They smell like gunpowder and leather and fried chicken.
You could also smell like aftershave, which is a kind of gasoline.
These are silly ideas, but I believed them. There were rules, and I had to follow them. Do Special Forces commandos spoil themselves on a mission? I should say not. Beard oil has been used for centuries but can you imagine a Viking gently rubbing rosemary-scented goop into his scruff? Feet are for marching, kicking, and stomping, nothing more. Maybe dancing but not ballet.
I even had a preferred soap brand. I used ‘Irish Spring’ because the weak-willed are vulnerable to advertising. I grew up watching ‘Irish Spring ‘TV commercials, which almost always took place in Irish villages with lasses and lads and one of their old slogans was “Fresh and clean as a whistle,” followed by a saucy wolf whistle.
In almost every ad that I remember, too, a dude would cut a bar of green soap with a knife in order to unleash the Irish scents, I think? I don’t really know what “Ireland” is supposed to smell like, leprechauns? Whiskey? Handsome men wearing wool sweaters? I guess it didn’t matter because I always had one brick of ‘Irish Spring’ that I would wash with until it was a sliver.
I did not pamper myself. Gender norms are so simple anyone can internalize them and mistake them for a personality. For instance: I did not pamper myself because men are supposed to be rough. Coarse. Strong. Women primp because women are soft and gentle and most of all, vain. I washed my junk and brushed my teeth and shaved. I groomed. I made sure to cut my toenails before they became talons, although I never did that great a job and at least one toe would always have a deadly hangnail. I wore deodorant, too, and I did my laundry. I wasn’t a filthy beast but I didn’t think I was allowed to soak in a bubble bath or give myself a good scrubbing with a loofa or lather myself up with soaps that smelled like fruits. The strong and silent never say things like, “oooh this feels nice on my skin.”
Modern masculinity offers its adherents few choices in life. For instance, men are permitted a handful of pleasures, which include booze and sports, steak, and sex. But there are so many more joys and adventures and just… life… out there. Therapy feels pretty good, but it’s not really an ‘instant gratification thing.
It took me a long time to deprogram myself. How did I do it? Well, for one thing, I started using the froufrou hair products of the women I dated. I had one ex whose entire bathroom was a shrine to chilling out: incense and Epsom salts and bottles of exfoliating body wash. It’s been years since I’ve used ‘Irish Spring.’
Skyscrapers sway, and boats creak, and I have grown. Once upon a time, I would never have been caught in a spa. Then I went to a spa. Many years later. I was sober and in Vegas for work, and that city is built on basic macho indulgences, but on a whim, I tried out the hotel's spa. The sauna? The massage? The cucumber water and peel-off face mask and the smells? The candles? I woke up the next morning hungover from relaxation. I have never looked back but I’m still discovering little things that are fucking delightful. Bath oils? Body butters? Under-eye gel patches? Good stuff. Prologue over.
I got my first pedicure this past weekend.
My girlfriend was like, “wanna get pedicures,” and I didn’t overthink it. I just said, “yes.” There was a time when I’d say “no” to new experiences. I have talked to my therapist and my sponsor, and my loved ones about why I pushed away good things instead of embracing them. The only real answer is that “no” feels powerful, especially when you’re scared and vulnerable. “No” is control. “No” is safe. Once, I was a door, and now I am an antenna. I receive love and hope and self-care suggestions.
Acupuncture? Yes! Meditation? Yes! Setting personal boundaries? Yes! Remember fellas: boundaries are a form of self-love.
One of the quintessential masculine virtues is courage and, yes, it is laughable to think that only straight, cis men are courageous. That’s as absurd as the notion that only women are, say, gentle. It takes courage to open yourself up to new ideas. The older I get, the more the concept of a “real man” becomes more and more abstract. I’m even forgetting entire parts of the script. Real men sing songs to their dogs, right?
The differences between men and women are just the stuff of aging stand-up comedy routines. Men are horny and women are crazy! Har-har-har. Those kinds of punchlines only tickle the funny bones of bros who think wearing sunglasses on top of camo baseball hats is a biological imperative.
A man can wear pink, a man can be crazy, a man can cry during the first five minutes of Up. That’s the truth. A woman can wear sunglasses on top of a camp baseball hat, too, if she wants. Knock yourself out. So can those who identify as nonbinary.
There are only people. Human beings, holding hands. Just people trying to get through the day, and the only way that happens is with love and courage. Some of the strongest people I’ve ever known were also the most gentle. That’s a lesson, too. Be gentle with yourself, even if you think you’re made of granite.
That doesn’t mean this world is fair, or that some groups think they’re better than other groups. It just means you and I, no matter who we are, have more in common than we are led to believe. I know that’s a little soppy but we’ll get over it.
My point is: let the sunshine in. Receive. You are an antenna.
A little bit about my Hobbit-like feet: they have calluses. I wouldn’t call them scaley, but there are patches of dry skin. My left toenail is cracked and not too long ago, I clipped it at an angle, turning it into a tiny guillotine blade. I don’t even know the point of toenails on pinky toes, they seem decorative, mostly. Easily yanked off.
But I don’t usually think about my feet until they hurt, which doesn’t happen that often. Most days, I walk 10,000 steps (which is what my fitness app tells me.) But every so often, on a sunny Saturday for instance, I can get in almost 20,000 steps, and that’s when the ol’ dogs bark.
Then I got a pedicure. Now? My feet are smooth. Reborn. It’s like I have a new pair of hooves.
Ihave walked by nail salons for years, briefly peering in at women lounging in recliners as pedicurists hunch over their feet. It is a powerfully gendered image, and I never stopped to consider going in. Until this past weekend and, my dudes, it was incredible. Before I even got into it I had to choose a nail polish color and I reached for a clear polish until I saw a color called “Scarlett O’Hara,” which was a bright crimson.
It’s like it spoke to me.
I realized, too, that there’s probably money in a line of nail polishes marketed to insecure men. Instead of “Scarlett O’Hara,” why not “Blood Splatter” or “Laser Sword.” “Dark Moss” becomes “Cash Money” and “Azure’ is “Dr. Manhattan.”
I don’t know why I picked ‘Scarlett O’Hara.” Yes, Gone with the Wind is problematic, for lack of a better word. And yes, you should probably watch that movie anyway. But that was what I was drawn to and now my toes look like lollipops.
I am not a sandals guy unless I’m at the beach. I suppose I should say “yes” to hippie shoes which were good enough for Jesus. But this pedicure may have changed my mind about walking around with al fresco piggies. I gotta show my boys off, and by “boys,” I mean my cherry tomato-colored phalanges.
First of all, pedicures feel good. I don’t know where pleasure ends, and self-care begins, but I don’t think it matters. This life is full of pain and struggle and one should treat oneself, as they say. I felt uncomfortable when I first sunk into the recliner as if I didn’t deserve the luxury and then I bashfully activated its built-in massager — like one of those robo-chairs at that mall store full of gadgets that no one really buys — and leaned into the kneading. Ooooh.
Inside every American is a small Puritan who frowns when life gets easy, even for a second, and that Puritan must be thrown down a well.
I recommend getting a pedicure if you have never gotten one. I swear, my dudes, you contain multitudes. You can cling to gender norms and, also, meditate in a comfy chair while a trained professional soaps up your feet, rubs your calves, and takes what looks like a cheese grater to your trotters. A pedicurist has a number of gnarly-looking tools that are designed to scrape, trim, and excavate flesh. Do you know who else uses tools? That’s right, construction workers.
One warning, however: you will be supplied with a pair of paper slippers and those slippers come in two sizes: petite, small, and elfin. I needed a size “gorilla.”
The pedicure made me feel like Ceasar on his throne. The pedicurist knew it was my first time and, yes, I nervously giggled a couple of times. I could tell she was holding back as she was digging into my toenails and next time I’m going to nod at her and whisper “show my cuticles no mercy.”
I sat next to my girlfriend. We were masked but we were both smiling. I got in some quality phone scrolling time and almost nodded off at one point.
By the end of the pedicure, I was fully relaxed and my feet were painted. Did they look like Sasquatch feet? I mean, sure. Did they look beautiful? I think so and that was a surprisingly nice feeling. My only gripe with the whole process was the polish drying: I had to get up from my recliner and then sit at a desk while a heat machine made sure my “Scarlett O’Hara” goop didn't run. That would have been a good time for a snack, to be honest. Nothing elaborate, a macaroon or maybe stuffed mushrooms. Chicken wings? Just a thought.
I can’t wait until my next appointment. Maybe I’ll get a manicure too?
Here’s a sort of epilogue: I struggled with depression and anxiety during that first year of the pandemic, just like millions of others. It was during the early weeks of quarantine that I committed to small self-care rituals to get me through the days and nights. Nothing fancy: walks in the park, afternoon tea, listening to history podcasts. And long, hot, nighttime showers. I would dim the lights and just let the scalding water cook away my stress.
I had forgotten about my pedicure by the time I got home. Since I don’t own Crocs or Birkenstocks, I had delicately cram my feet into my sneakers. Out of sight, etc. Once I peeled off my socks, though, I was all googly-eyed. Sup, rosebuds.
Around midnight, I stood in the steam and stared at my glistening toes and smiled and then sudsed up my hair with coconut milk shampoo and watched the sweet-smelling soap water swirl down the drain.
This post originally appeared on Medium and is edited and republished with author's permission. Read more of John DeVore's work on Medium. And order his book, Theater Kids: A True Tale of Off-Off Broadway here.
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