For Whom the Belle Toes

Springtime, that glorious season of promise, and during this time of renewal and rebirth--as the poet has it--our thoughts turn to... Locke, Hume, Averroes, Lao-tzu, Heschel, Wittgenstein, and Santayana. Really? Truly. Let us take a moment and consider these philosophers.


Now, let's get down to it, shall we? Let us contemplate bare flesh. In particular, feet. Feet that are fleet in Pumas and Nikes. Bare feet solidly stroking the earth. Kid feet in adorable pitter-patter soft-soled shoes. Ankle-strap platform stilettos.


Let us now focus our laser-like attention closer. Closer...yes. To the toe! Painted. Anyone can paint their toenails. Varnish knows no boundaries. And yet it is usually found on females. Femmes in particular. This is not essential to the sex; it is a chosen gender characteristic. More to the point, a "signifier." A non-verbal means of communication. (Contemplate what Nabokov was able to do with Lolita's toes.)

Let us Spring into a consideration of the implications of the painted tootsie, and an examination of meaning via gender, sex, and for the great, green-blue orb that is earth.

On the pro-paint side, varnish may be a means of self-expression. Champions of the pedicure claim it makes the world a more colorful place, one digit at a time. Varnish can cover or accentuate. Give the individual control over the expression of sensuality, or simply the physicality of being.


On the other side of the equation, some feminists, religious-minded individuals, minimalists and naturalists might ask us to consider that polish plays on consigned sex roles, exploits insecurities, objectifies women's bodies, and (or) that polish and acetate-based remover are among the more toxic of cosmetics. (Oh, that's what the microscopically small print says!...)


Just the other day, I was examining the topic (it was wearing Vamp, by Chanel, at the time).


Polish pours from bottles. Applied with a brush. Removed with balls of cotton. Each product boasts labels: paper, ink, and glue.


There are boxes that bear the bottles, brushes, balls of cotton, ink, paper, and glue.


Trucks that bring them to market.


Stores that stock them.


Industries that stock the smocks the clerks sport....Before we know it, we've stumbled down a hole (down, down, down we go!), when all one wanted was to objectify feet as the innocent, blameless, endlessly fascinating means of desire and fancy that they are. Oh, it gets so complex! I feel the need to have a drink and a think...well, at least a drink. If you have any thoughts on the pleasures and/or pitfalls of pedicures, feel free to bare them in the comments section below. (Love 2 C U bare your sole...er, soul.)