A Toenail Confessional
When it comes to toenails, I need help. I’m so clueless about them that I had to look up how to spell “toenail” correctly. It may be one word, but it’s a big problem for me.
Something about toenails has always been a little disgusting to me. When I was in college, one of my friends shared a flat with a couple of friends. We were out on State Street eating Mexican one late, hungover Sunday morning when he told me that one of his roommates, a very well-dressed, stylish guy, would put his feet up on a coffee table in the main room of their apartment and clip his nails while watching music videos on MTV.
If that wasn’t bad enough, stylish guy would leave the nail clippings on the table for everyone to see. Yuck. The thought almost made me throw up my “Mucho Burrito” – a one-pound Mexican monstrosity that made Pedro’s famous. Almost.
I can’t remember the flavor of that marvelous Mucho (is “big” a flavor?), but the thought of those sheared, shared toenails is vivid, and it still makes me shudder.
What purpose do toenails serve, anyway? Off I went on my toenail rabbit hole. The answer - protection. Toes are vulnerable to injury. If you’ve ever stubbed your toe, you understand. The website Balance Health says, “Toenails are composed of keratin, which is a protein, and quite similar to animal claws.” In case you were wondering, your big toenail grows fastest, while the little piggy at the end has the slowest growth. No wonder it cries, “wee, wee, wee” all the way home.
My problem with toenails, besides barely being able to look at them, is that it’s almost impossible to clip them well. When I do summon the courage to cut back those horrific things, my clippers don’t cut it. I wish my emotional skin was as thick as my toenails. The most common cause of thickened toenails is, of course, aging. According to the Mayo Clinic, toenails thicken with age because the growth rate of the nail plate slows.
Regular toenail clippers are useless for my old toes. There is a nifty nail tool called nail nippers that work best for trimming thickened toenails. There are about ten million varieties of nippers, but they all look suspiciously like wire cutters to me.
At my last checkup, I took off my shoes and showed my toes to my doctor. He recommended a prescription to fight off infection and professional help. He then told me he was retiring and that this would be my last appointment with him. I’m sure my toes had nothing to do with his decision to hang up his stethoscope.
I was feeling toenail shame until I learned that “fungal nail is common and contagious, and the infection can be picked up in public areas such as pools, locker rooms, gyms, and spas. Toenail fungus will cause the nail to yellow, become crumbly or ragged, thicken, and sometimes emit an unpleasant odor.” Only sometimes?
At the bottom of the article, I saw a link called “Older Fool Health.” That was hitting a little close to home. So, I put on my cheaters and read the link title again – it actually said, “Older Foot Health.” Either way, I wasn’t clicking. Fool me once…
Each month, I ignore my toenails as long as possible. I don’t even look at them, but I know when it’s time to get my nails clipped. The obvious clue is when I put my foot into a sock, and it gets caught before reaching its ultimate destination – the toe of the sock. When my toenails start making runs in my socks, I know I cannot put it off any longer.
When it’s time for me, it’s also time for Blackie the wonder-lab to get his nails trimmed. I can’t cut Blackie’s nails, either. Do dogs even have toenails? They don’t have toes. Maybe they have paw-nails? Whatever you call them, I ain’t cutting them. Blackie does not want me to, either. It could be because I close my eyes and hope for the best. I can’t bear the thought of clipping too close and hurting the big lug. Besides, the pros at either Flyin’ Fur or Bonsai Pet do a fabulous job.
Dogs are lucky. There is no stigma for a male dog to get his nails done. Nail salons for humans, on the other paw, have always been a women’s domain. Many a macho man would rather be caught dead with Howard Hughes nails than enter a nail salon, or worse yet, a beauty salon.
What’s a real man to do? Suck it up, buttercup, and get thy nails into a nail place. Luckily, the one I go to is located in a strip mall (are all nail salons in strip malls?) near me, tucked in between a Pizza Hut and a paint store. I park as close to the paint store as possible, and act like I’m strutting in to find some paint for my manly remodeling job. At the last second, I’ll veer over to the nail salon’s doors next door and slip inside.
Getting a pizza is never a stretch for me, so parking in front of where nobody out-pizzas the hut is another sneaky, serpentine alternative route to Hannah’s door.
The name of Hannah’s salon is “Royal Nails”, and when I go, I always feel like a king, not because I think I’m super cool or that I’m a big stud. It’s just that I’m the only dude I’ve ever seen in there.
Hannah and her crew know how to take me. I think of each one of my regular visits could be a new Woody Allen movie, “Hannah and my blisters.” Hannah or one of her kind, cutting-crew members often ask me what color polish I want and then they giggle. I laugh, too, but there’s no way I’m getting any polish on these terrible tootsies. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I simply do not want to draw any additional attention to my terrible toes.
The whole procedure takes no more than ten minutes. I call ahead because it’s polite, and it always minimizes my time in the waiting area, where women of all ages, shapes, and sizes eye me suspiciously while they peruse the rainbow of polish colors, from neon yellow to soft glossy mint.
When it’s over, my feet joyfully glide into my socks. I flex my happy feet and feel like I have twinkle toes again. Hannah and her team wave goodbye over their next, artistic procedure. They are safe in the knowledge that in another month or so, I’ll claw my way back to my throne – an electric massage chair with a tub for my feet.
Outside in the fresh air, I skulk past the paint store back to my car. Maybe I should wear painters’ pants next time to complete the look. They used to be so “in.” I’ll ask Margot if they’re in style anymore.
In the meantime, if I could just find another Mucho Burrito, life would be toe-tally bueno.