If I occasionally book an appointment for a pedicure, I do so with complete discretion. I make sure the children, chaperoned by a responsible party, are engaged in a wholesome activity, such as sleep. I select a time when my husband is distracted by his responsibilities at the office or the basketball court. I set voice mail to one ring. My whereabouts are adequately explained, I feel, by "unavailable." Pedicures, my husband acquiesces, belong in that vague pink zone of feminine activities about which any specificity is discouraged.

Recently, however, there has been a breach in this security system for which I have only myself to scold.

In the interest of providing a soothing and non-returnable birthday gift, I was led to Truefitt & Hill. This is a barbershop, with pedigree. According to the emporium's literature, Mr. Truefitt and Mr. Hill have been attending to the personal needs of British royalty for 200 years. They, or perhaps their descendants, will do the same for Chicagoans who present themselves on the sixth floor of 900 N. Michigan.

What exactly goes on in the forest green interior remains a matter of some mystery. Business takes place behind the mahogany gleam of the "dispensing department," past the locked cases of straight razors and badger-hair brushes, through the heavy door guarded by a coat of arms, crossed swords and the raised eyebrows of the desk help.

The shop's services, like its more illustrious clients, have titles. The Prince of Wales. The Buckingham Palace. The Royal & Ancient. Such formality, I assume, is meant to convey gravitas. And to form a burly and burnished version of the lace curtain-deflecting the prying eyes of the opposite sex.

I contracted for a gift of The Saint Andres, plus the renowned Hot Lather Shave, which calls for a procession of scalding towels and the sure hand of Ilia Voltchenok, trained in the shaving arts in Russia. The Saint Andrews comes with a number of other manly services, such as Relaxing Hand and Forearm Massage. Men's work, it seems, strains the forearms.

My husband, though skeptical, kept his appointment and arrived at his birthday dinner smoothly shaved. Very smoothly shaved. But something else had transpired during his three hours in the burgundy leather recliner, something that completely absorbed his attention. A woman had offered to soak his feet, rub them with a variety of apothecary's preparations, and tend to the needs of his savagely neglected toes.

It was a moving suggestion, one so appallingly indulgent it seemed, frankly, indecent.

I never let on that it's called a pedicure.

Chicago Tribune Magazine, Sept. 9, 2001