Today, I asked R to get a manicure. He complained for hours before accepting. Your hands are hard, I told him, your fingers rough. That’s because I work, he said. Everyday I work for you, for our family. I thought he was being ridiculous. You can still work when you have soft hands. He said that men will think he sits in an office, that he has never done a day’s work in his life. R is proud of the time he spent in the bush, and proud of working in the factory.