Macho men and toenail art

I got my nails painted three weeks ago, and they still look quite intact, shiny pale pink with a little white and red and black feather design on each nail. I went with a friend, Justine, and we sat in plastic chairs on the sidewalk across the street from the main daladala (minibus) stand in downtown Arusha. A young man, maybe 18, sat in front of me, picked up my big toe, hunched over it, and began filing away, working hard and fast, as one might on a piece of wood or steel. A man in his 30s did Justine’s hands, with elaborate flowers, tiny and perfect. They were men of the streets, rough and fast and loud, running back and forth to borrow supplies from each other. But they also knew their craft, with steady hands on delicate work. A neighboring man complained to our men that they’d borrowed such and such nail polish from him and what they gave him back wasn’t fair. They ignored him. He grew angrier. They told him to chill. He wanted to fight. In the end, two large men had to hold him back, to avoid a street fight. Over nail polish. When I leaned over to my friend, whispering that this was the first time I’d had this done by a man, she looked at me, confused. “What? Painting nails? Only men do that. Where you are from, do women paint nails? Huh. I hadn’t heard that.” I wondered aloud whether they might think it strange, that their job is to work with women’s feet, but she quickly explained why it was a great job, going into detail about the cost of a bottle of nail polish, how many toenails it might cover, and the cost of one pedicure. Clearly, it was good business. So clearly, it was a man's job.