Indulging in a Shoeshine Puts a Spring in Her Step

It feels good. If I breathe deeply and concentrate on the rhythm, I bliss out.

I’m getting my shoes shined.

I’m sitting in a high, cinnamon-brown Leatherette chair, perched on the edge, my feet barely reaching the metal footrests. I feel like a little girl on a chair that’s too big. I latch my heels on the footrests so they don’t slide off with the pressure of the shine.

A shoeshine is luxurious, sensual, voluptuous.

As I enjoy this so much, I asked around and concluded that most women have never had a professional shoeshine.

They should. Getting your shoes done at a shoeshine stand feels as sublime as a shampoo in a salon. Sure, you can do it yourself. But when someone else washes your hair, you shut your eyes and feel the fingers, kneading the scalp. Such services are kind and gentle close encounters.

So part of the pleasure is physical.

But shoeshines also feel good emotionally. It’s an indulgence to have someone else do for you what you can do for yourself. Buying a shine ranks with paying someone to shorten sleeves, clean your house or serve you coffee in bed.

Also, the professionals do it better. After I oil my cowboy boots, they still look as though they have been trampled by a herd. When Frank, who shines shoes at my Philadelphia commuter train station, polishes them, they look new. My Weejuns look better when Frank has at them.

Frank’s is a five-step process that takes 10 minutes and costs about $2 plus tip (the cost in L.A. is about the same). After he removes the dust from my shoes, he applies orange lotion with his hand, rubbing it into the leather with a brush. Then he rubs harder with a towel, followed by Kiwi cordovan with two more brushes. Next is white cream.

Wielding the two cordovan brushes, Frank buffs both sides of the shoes. For the final phase, he extracts a clean soft cloth from his pocket and burnishes my shoes until they reflect the $1 tip I pay. So I’m still grappling with women’s excuses for not patronizing the commercial spit-and-polish industry. What are women waiting for?

I asked Frank and he said, “Good question. I had a lady in here this morning, though.”

As a steady patron of shoeshine stands--which can be found in commuter stations, hotels, airports and clubs--I have found one hurdle. A shoeshine establishment is such a male-oriented business.

For example, the cubicle at Suburban Station, where I once got my pink flats shined, is too close for comfort to the door and sounds of the men’s room. The lighted sign reads “MEN.”

Conversations seemed to lapse when I walked up, and men reacted as if I were in their locker room, so I patronize other vendors.

Maybe women avoid shoeshines for deeper reasons. Do we resist taking time, even five minutes, for ourselves? Are we so accustomed to being caretakers that we can’t bear accepting outside help?

Sometimes even caretakers need to be taken care of. You never outgrow your need to be waited on.