Reflections on a Birkenstock

(First published in Christchurch Press)

Recently I was accused of being part of the Birkenstock crowd - 'an academic / intelligentsia nexus' which apparently shares my point of view. I wondered if the Birkenstock crowd was an obscure school of liberal thought until my husband reminded me it's a brand of shoes.

I don't wear Birkenstocks. Mostly I wear gumboots or steel-capped work boots. I can no longer fit into any of my smart, Italian footwear which, along with all my other smart gear, languishes in the back of my wardrobe while I happily do my impression of a scarecrow and trudge around my property picking up horse poo.

Even before entering the rarefied world of equine barefoot trimming and lameness rehabilitation I never managed to look presentable when dealing with horses.

Grooming invariably resulted in me looking like I had a moustache and beard from all the horse hair that stuck to my sweaty face. Riding in an arena when it was dusty ended with me looking like a coal miner. Mucking out stables saw as much straw in my hair as in the wheelbarrow, and my work boots could have walked back to the tack room on their own.

When I kept my horse on a posh livery yard in the UK, I was in awe of the glossy, perfectly turned-out women who, after schooling their glossy, perfectly turned-out horses, still looked the same as they did when they stepped out of their glossy, perfectly turned-out cars.

Intriguingly, these women seemed not to sweat. They’d take off their velvet riding hats, toss their heads and be restored instantly to airbrushed-like perfection. Their gleaming, impossibly long and narrow dressage boots slipped easily off their thin legs; their skin-tight leather gloves slipped just as easily off their manicured hands, and there was not a mark to be seen on their perfectly fitted leather-seated riding britches.

In stark contrast, when I took off my riding hat, my hair remained plastered solidly to my head and no amount of shaking would induce it to move. My riding gloves took on a strange appearance – after prising them off, they looked like my hands were still in them.

Removing my riding boots involved a team of people, most of whom fell on their faces when the things finally and unpredictably flew off. When I did dare to wear pale-coloured britches, they’d acquire the most unfortunate array of saddle marks. And, with leather-seated britches, there was the distressing 'saggy-bum' effect caused by the leather stretching to the shape of one's seated bottom and staying that way.

These days I have given up on all attempts at presentability. Top of the barefoot-trimming personal appearance issues is the all-pervading smell of hoof which, as initiates will know, comes in three strengths: Eau de Healthy Hoof, Eau de Foundered Hoof, and Parfum d’Abscessing Hoof.

Finding slivers of hoof about my person is a disturbingly common occurrence. It gets everywhere, even in my hair, bra and ears. Once I was hit in the eye by a piece of hoof shrapnel. Either it, or the fit of temper that followed, burst a blood vessel resulting in a charming red-eyed effect that perfectly complemented the hay-festooned hair and mud-streaked face.

Even when I worked in a normal job I could never maintain perfect nails. They'd conspire among themselves as to the order in which they would break off, crack or split and ruin the effect. Since starting in this line of work, I try to hide my hands from public view especially in winter when my nails declare a general strike – one off, all off.

Then there are the calluses, which come from gripping the knives, and the scars, which come from slipping with them. I slipped so often when I was learning to trim that the inside of my forearms look like I'm into self-harming or went through a window arms first.

My work clothing quickly takes on a hoboesque appearance. Most of my trousers have a permanent stain on the knees – those which still have knees in them. My jacket pockets are always full of hay and bits of string.

I tried wearing an overall but getting it on and off was a drama. I gave up on it the day I tried to put it on over my boots and my feet got stuck. Even the dogs laughed.

And then there’s the collection of sweat-stained hats and work gloves which are so offensive to people not involved in trimming, they have to be housed in the barn – where they have the beneficial side-effect of repelling vermin.

Even my mobile phone is not exempt. I put it in a pocket, the lining of which had been eaten by a Labrador in search of dog biscuits. The phone fell through the hole and, inexplicably, stopped working. I took it into a repair shop and when they opened the back, a shower of hay and horse hair fell out.

Sheer tiredness sometimes leads to me putting my clothes on inside-out or, even more fetching, doing my buttons up wrongly. Usually I only realise it when someone gives me a look that says they think I am completely Upminster. (That's five stations past Barking for those who don't know).