Polishing your Footwear

photo credit: Ditte Isager

There was a shoeshine man who used to make the rounds at 745 Fifth Avenue, the building where I worked my first year in New York. He was fond of saying that a true gentleman didn't feel properly dressed unless his shoes were freshly shined every morning. By even the most conservative estimate, I save myself more than $500 a year (and God knows these days I can use it), but I'm really more interested in just slowing everything down a bit.

I love the ritual: the careful laying out of newspaper, and the round tin of Kiwi polish with the built-in wing-nut-shaped turn-key opener—a damned near perfect piece of industrial design. After enough applications, the old T-shirt that I use becomes a work of art in its own right, a poor man's Matisse with all its moody starbursts of black and brown and cordovan. And my dad's horsehair brush (with the Good Housekeeping seal branded into its hardwood handle) is the very same one he taught me with—and one of the first things I claimed from my parents' house when I settled their affairs.

First, I brush the shoe good, cleaning it of any dust or dirt. With the rag wrapped tightly around my first two fingers, I apply the polish in small, tight swirls. By the time I'm through applying wax to the second shoe, the first will be dry and ready to brush, and that's all I do. I was taught to spray a little water on a second light application—a spit shine —and buff with the softest cloth I could find until I could see my face. But I was never in the army like my dad and prefer just a little luster to a lot of shine.

I have a closet full of nice shoes but wear the same ones practically every day—a size 13 cordovan (color and leather) plain-toe lace-up. With this particular shoe, I use a black cream every third or fourth polishing instead of cordovan paste. It makes them the same deep aubergine as a perfectly ripe eggplant. They go with everything I own, and they're as comfortable as a bare foot in sand. I've had them resoled twice already, and I'm told a well-made, well-cared-for cordovan will outlast its owner. I aim to find out—just not too soon, I hope.

Contributor: Fred Woodward