Men like pedicures

OK, maybe not most men. But I do. I’ve gone with my wife five or six times, and I always dog it. I even ask the women to please paint my nails, usually in some offensive shade of Hooker Red or Mandy Moore Pink.

Hence, I was thrilled when my good friend Michael Lewis of the Daytona Beach News-Journal called me and excitedly proclaimed that he’d had his first pedicure—and it was great. I asked him to write a jeffpearlman.com post about the experience. Here you go …

I’m not what you would call a man’s man. I have no problem admitting that.
I can’t hook up electronic equipment, am constantly getting lost, and quite frankly have all kinds of trouble with any sort of power tool.

And yet, even as something less than a man’s man, I always drew the line somewhere when it came to female-like behavior. Specifically, grooming.
Pedicures were just too girly. I mean, come on, paying someone to tend to your feet and clean out all the crap between your toes? Never.

But after months of my wife telling me to do something about my “talons” and mocking my feet every time I wore flip-flops, I swallowed my pride (which went down smoothly after my sunday-morning waffles) and walked into Modern Nails, a cozy little place wedged between a supermarket and a shoe store.

Surprisingly, I feel no embarrassment asking for a pedicure, though I swear I saw the owner, a balding Korean man, snicker when I confirmed the pedicure was for me.

It turns out my pedicurist (a new word I have learned!) is Tina, and she and her two sisters work at the place. Tina assures me there’ll be little pain, but what she doesn’t tell me is the foot bath she’s prepared is roughly the temperature of Mt. Vesuvius’ lava. She then tells me that for a boy, “you have nice feet.” Hey, I take my compliments where I can get them.

After the rookie mistake of not testing the water first, I settle in to my E-Z chair. And I have to tell you, getting a pedicure is quite the relaxing experience. I have no idea if Tina is any good at her job, but her lotioning skills appeared to be first-rate. She hardly caused me any discomfort while removing the ingrown nails and assorted detritus that had been growing on my 10 digits since Jody Davis was a catcher for the Cubs. (JEFF PEARLMAN NOTE: Great friggin’ reference, Mike!) My feet got scrubbed with a pumice, followed by a nice soothing aloe rub.


By the end, Tina and I had become so close that I was even telling her that no, I didn’t think her sister’s black nail polish was a good idea to attract boys (I simply lied to protect the sister’s feelings a few minutes later).

When my 45 minutes were up, Tina told me to come back again.

She didn’t have to ask twice—it’s not like I’m suddenly going to learn how to use power tools, anyway.

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