A necessary extravagance

It’s not easy to get rid of all the dead skin that accumulates around the cuticles, or under the foot. Representation Pic

I had my first first-world pedicure this week. More than eight months after my last - during my trip to India in April 2023. Which was my first pedicure since 2020, possibly. It isn't that I prefer depriving my feet of such care. It's that where I live, the prices feel intimidating. My middle-class financial sensibilities find it difficult to justify paying 50 Euros (R5,000) for a haircut, for instance, so I get them just twice a year. I even occasionally cheated the system by turning up for my appointment at the Salon with freshly washed and shampooed hair, to get some money shaved off the bill for not needing the compulsory hair wash. It costs 30 Euros to have one's legs waxed. 30 Euros for the hands. I buy cold wax strips from the supermarket and only ever bother with my legs. I let my hands stay hairy. No one here cares. There's no judgment attached.

The thing about feet, though, is that whether we like it or not, they do require specialised care. It's not easy to get rid of all the dead skin that accumulates around the cuticles, or under the foot. I have odd toenails and clipping them in a way that doesn't enable in-growing is challenging. During the first two lockdowns in 2020, when I was staying in place in Delhi, for some bizarre reason that I cannot now remember, my left big toe looked like crap. The toenail had grown really thick and discoloured and in order to clip it, I had to soak my feet in water for ages, and then make several attempts with the nail cutter. I think I'd had some form of injury which caused the original nail to die and a new nail to grow. I cannot remember. But in the absence of pedicures during that time, I had to care for this condition on my own. I remember learning to feel secure in my partner's love for me because I witnessed how committed he was to the well-being of this dysfunctional toenail. It was a clear imperfection that I didn't feel I needed to hide from him, less he thought me not attractive. He was invested in its healing.

The nail continued to be a sore point even after moving here. Especially after a day spent hiking. The in-growing bit of the nail always pressed against the flesh. My mother-in-law subsequently intervened. She recommended a foot cream for about a week and when we found no improvement, decided I should go to Erica. I may have written about the experience then because the business is impressively run by three generations of women (Erica, Patrizia and Sandra) in a shop in Neumarkt/Egna, the town on the opposite side of the valley from us.

At the time I only sought treatment for my big toes. Sandra, who represented the youngest generation, examined it, and used a tool to shave down the nail and reduce its size. It looked and sounded like something you're likely to see at the dentist's office, one of those high-powered, noisy apparatuses used to polish off a new tooth cap or a filling. There was no judgement and within five minutes, she managed to reduce the size of my toenail and clipped it in the right places at the right angles. After that first consultation, I only had to return twice after a period of a few months. I paid a minimal 20- or 10-Euro fee, which felt easy to justify. The level of comfort I felt in my body after felt totally worth it. I could suddenly trek long distances without the fear of the impact on my toenail. I felt a sense of liberation. I continued to care for my feet, using a file and a nail cutter. Still, going expressly for a pedicure was catalogued in my brain as something outside my budget, an extravagance.

This year, for my birthday, my mother-in-law gifted me a manicure-pedicure-facial package at Erica. She told me she would happily take over child-care while I was away. I wondered if she had noticed how my feet looked like they were longing for care. My fingers, too, had begun looking quite desperate from regular dishwashing and the setting in of winter and consequent dryness. I promptly forgot about the gift voucher, because of the demands of motherhood. But my mother-in-law regularly asked if I had made the appointment. Then one day, in her presence, I managed to fix a time for Tuesday, this week. Sandra told me she and Patrizia would do the pedicure and the manicure at the same time so I could be done in an hour.

Every now and then since I returned from the treatment, I find myself eyeing my feet and my fingers. They look healthy and aglow. Unlike back in 2020, I was able to communicate and even converse with the women in German. They spoke to each other in Dialect, which I could also understand. The dentist-like tools were used once again, along with a funky razor-like device which was scrubbed against my heel and under my toes to get rid of layers of dead skin. We decided on a kind of nail lacquer for my fingers, whose glittery transparency contrasted so well against my skin. I'm beginning to wonder if I should consider investing in repeating the process at least once every two months. I have been thinking about how my feet bear the weight of not only my body but all its emotions, its memories, its grief. How my fingers contribute to my daily income. They are the parts of my body I most directly use to navigate my way around the world. Maybe they deserve better treatment.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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