I was in a yoga class a few years ago and the instructor mentioned casually that she “needed a pedicure.” I thought, “No one needs a pedicure. Some people need food, though, you yuppie.”

That was just me being a bitch. And not very yogic, either. Because now, I find myself saying, I need a pedicure. I don’t really. But I’d like one. I wait a nice long time, until my polish from the last one is barely a speck, and then I walk out the door on a brilliantly sunny day to the corner nail salon.

I get a pedicure instead of a manicure because my fingernails are constantly taking a beating with picking up kids, wrapping them in clothing and diapers, and washing repeatedly. My toenails, however, are protected. They practically marry that polish.

It’s not just about the polish, though. It’s about the way my feet feel afterward–all pretty and clean and sparkly. Each time I look at them, I feel special. It’s about the experience–a place devoid of toddler shouts, a bright room with the girliest of girl movies on a big screen, a massage chair and warm, bubbling water. I go by myself, I take a book that I never open. I just stare into the abyss of a large TV screen with two people running around backwards until they kiss. Strangely, all of that put together is rejuvenating.

I used to feel really uncomfortable with the whole idea of sitting in a chair and having someone work on my feet. I still do, a bit. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to talk, ask questions, make friends. Should I tell them I hate the brush or just let them do their job? It doesn’t matter. I pay $35 for a completely female escape, and I treasure it.

In honor of spring and the way it sexily convinces us to indulge, I give you this poem. For one of my first English classes in college, the nutty (truly, nutty) professor assigned us any poem in the whole book to read closely and analyze. I had no idea yet what I was doing, but this one jumped out at me, mostly because the speaker seemed to think like me, justifying her desire for petty luxuries. I also love the color red. (Looked at my blog much?) I asked the professor for help in his dusty office where yellowed books peeked out from every shelf. As we talked, I finally started to understand and appreciate how each of the ten simple lines meant much more than I had initially seen. For that reason, it will always be a poem close to my heart.

So, to spring! To pedicures and flip-flop feet.

“I Shall Paint My Nails Red”

by Carol Satyamurti

Because a bit of colour is a public service.

Because I am proud of my hands.

Because it will remind me I am a woman.

Because I will look like a survivor.

Because I can admire them in traffic jams.

Because my daughter will say ugh.

Because my lover will be surprised.

Because it is quicker than dyeing my hair.

Because it is a ten-minute moratorium.

Because it is reversible.

Now that I am a mother, I see why the speaker has to justify her desire to paint her nails. She likes the way it will help her reinvent herself as she gets older and endures daily drudgeries. It’s a way for her to feel like a woman again, an attempt to admire herself and surpass life’s travails. And so few things are reversible as an adult that it’s comforting to partake in something short-lived.

No one needs a frivolous pedicure or manicure. And that’s exactly the point.

Image: “Red Nail” by Peiyu Liu via Flickr using a Creative Commons license.

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Tagged as: Carole Satyamurti, I Shall Paint My Nails Red, nail salon, pedicures