For those who can afford the luxury, Cairo is a great place for a pedicure. In the virtual absence of laws regarding the medical profession (and/or malpractice), amateur pedicurists are free to delve into the depths of any foot that steps forward. The man who looks after mine is gifted; I sometimes feel he’s the only person I truly can’t live without. I’ve followed Khaled’s career from its humble beginnings, and seen how hard work and ambition can reshape a man – in Khaled’s case from a jovial healer to a balding, overweight father of three with chronic back problems and a mobile phone growing from his ear.
Khaled is a representative member of Egypt’s new middle class, which vies with the upper crust for consumerist appetites too numerous to sate. His shop is located in a quarter known as Dokki which (like the middle class) did not exist 25 years ago, at least in its present form. For the last few years, Khaled’s shop has been surrounded by construction sites, buildings erected with frightening haste some 10 or 15 floors tall. One of the last trees on the street is located outside his window. Inside, around two dozen men and women sit with their feet or bejewelled hands submerged in soapy water. The air-conditioning is on high, the strains of Arabic pop or hotel-lobby jazz barely audible above the din of traffic and jackhammers.
