If you move your eyes to the top of this page you’ll see a visual reminder that I enjoy an occasional pedicure. I’m not a sissy. I’m merely evolved.

I’ve never caught myself thinking or saying, “Oh boy, I really need a pedicure!” But I view it as a fun, occasional, pampering treat. I deserve it. And if I’m being really honest about it, I probably enjoy telling people that I get pedicures more than I enjoy actually getting them.

But I can’t just stroll into Ye Olde Pedicure Shoppe and get service. The salons are set up in a way that are socially challenging for me. I walk in. There is never anyone manning the front desk, if there’s a front desk at all, and then a voice from the ether angrily screeches, “What you want?!” I can’t tell who’s asking this of me. All I know is that ten heads are now turned in my direction. Since I don’t know who’s addressing me I don’t know who to look at in response. And it doesn’t help that everyone is now staring at me, waiting to see what this guy is going to say.

This is the only part of the whole experience that is hard for me. “Pedicure?” I say, pointing to me feet. Saying it as a question is actually a defeat. I should just say it as a statement and not like I’m asking a favor. Come to think of it I probably don’t need to point to my feet either.

From there on it’s a breeze. Well, with the exception of the part where they scrub the bottom of my feet and I squeal like a little piggy and bite on my complimentary copy of US Weekly in a failed attempt to quiet myself. They usually laugh at me. And there’s always the same obligatory joke. “What color?” they ask with a smile. “Very funny,” I reply.

I’ve gotten pedicures at several salons in the South End before where the male clientele is more of a norm than a rarity. But in my push to get outside my comfort zone, I decided it was time to up the bar. It was time to get a pedicure in… South Boston. Yes, Southie. Right smack on Broadway.

Getting myself through the front door took massive resolve. I spent fifteen minutes loitering outside the front of the salon, pretending to talk on my cell phone, trying to scope the place out a bit. I think what finally got me inside was that I was starting to get noticed. I had to either go in now or abandon the mission altogether. In I went.

Needless to say I gave the three older Southie ladies already in chairs quite a treat. “I wish my husband would come here! His toe nails are like talons in the bed!” “I bet you’re going on vacation and you want your tootsies to look nice!” “I think it’s great that a guy would get a pedicure!” “Will we see here next month too?”

I blush. But I’m also kind of loving it. And to boot it’s probably the best pedicure I’ve ever received.

After I pay up and tip (another awkward process)… I approach the front door and pause. I look left. I look right. I repeat. The coast is clear. I fling open the door and sprint to my car.. and these little piggies run all the way home.

(Entry proudly subtitled: I Got a Pedicure in Southie and Didn’t Get My Ass Kicked.)

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