Embracing the Unconventional: A Journey into Tabi Shoes
There’s a moment in life when you know you’ve taken a turn, and it often comes from the most unexpected places. For me, that moment arrived when a stranger complimented my hooves and I responded with a polite “thank you.” It was on Cremarme Street, where I was wearing Tabis—those split-toe shoes that make your feet look like a very chic farm animal. Two girls stopped me to ask where I got them. Not if I was okay. Not why I was dressed like a goat. Just: “Where can we buy them?” That’s when I realized I had become a Tabi person—the worst kind, because I was about to start sending links.
The Beginning of a New Chapter
It all started a few months ago. I kept seeing these shoes everywhere and thought, “This is hilarious.” Silly Gen Zs. Those are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’ve seen Crocs). Then I thought about them in the shower and again at school drop-off. Eventually, I Googled them “just to see.” A week later, I owned hooves.
Exhibit A: The hooves. Image: Supplied.
The Tabis arrived from Depop in a package covered in fun stickers, and I spent two weeks telling myself I was just waiting for the right occasion to wear them. Like farming. Or a quick gallop to Coles. Then one day I put them on just to walk around the house. Incredibly comfortable. I think there’s just something about the separation between your big toe and the others that just feels right. Sorry if that’s toe much information.
Stepping Into the Unknown
Eventually, I felt brave enough to wear them outside, cloven socks and all, and something strange happened. Someone at work asked, “Where are those from?” A Gen Z on the train said, “I love your Tabis.” A Gen Z! Complimenting me! Unprompted! And that’s when I realized strange shoes don’t repel people. They just attract the right ones, the weird ones, my people.
This got me thinking about every shoe I’d worn before them. So, for important context, here’s my shoe history:
- I started out strong. Toe socks in school (in hindsight this was foreshadowing), jelly shoes, those shoes that lit up when you walked. I was pretty damn cool.
- Then I got a job and lost all sense of self.
- Enter: Gladiator sandals. All the way up my shin. I thought I looked like Xena: Warrior Princess. I did not.
- Converses, every single day for two years.
- The nude heel. It did not elongate my legs like promised but did make it look like I had no feet.
- White sneakers. So many white sneakers.
- The square-toe mule. The chunky loafer. Ballet flats (cancelled, then uncancelled, then see-through???).
Some of these shoes were trying to say something, but I think most were trying very hard not to. And then, thirty years after my toe sock era, I bought another pair of footwear that separated my toes and made my feet look like a goat. And I have never felt more like myself.
Nothing says Valentine’s Day like a hoof. Image: Supplied.
The History Behind the Hooves
For the record: Tabis aren’t actually new, and Gen Zs definitely did not invent them. The split-toe design dates back to 15th century Japan. Construction workers wore them for balance. Belgian designer Martin Margiela put them on the runway in 1988, dipped in red paint, so models left little hoof prints behind them, which feels a bit aggressive tbh.
Anyway, the shoe became a cult item. Zendaya’s worn them, Dua Lipa’s worn them and apparently so has Pedro Pascal, which would actually convince me to do anything.
Once my Tabis arrived, and I started wearing them, something in me was awakened, both spiritually and podiatrically. It started with Tabis, then it escalated to more animal-esque shoes. I bought fur-trimmed boots and then another pair of fuzzy heels. Suddenly I was an entirely animal-adjacent-footed woman. And I was free.
The escalation. Image: Supplied.
Embracing the Freedom of Strangeness
Committing to a strange shoe is liberating. You’ve already done the most. You’re wearing hooves. You cannot be shy or embarrassed anymore. You’ve transcended it. Your outfit? Fine. Your hair? Fine. Your life choices? Also fine.
And I think maybe there’s something a little bit political about refusing to make your feet palatable too. Classic heels make our legs look longer, sure. But they also make walking objectively harder. And yet we keep buying them. (Me included.) I’m not quitting standard heels. I like them, respect them, fear them. But there is something a little bit rebellious about choosing a shoe that isn’t trying to make your body more acceptable. A very niche, hoof-shaped “f-u” to the patriarchy, if you will.
So, if you’ve been staring at something strange in a shop window: a weird clog, an ugly boot, a shoe that might make your partner say, “Seriously?” Buy it. Wear it tomorrow. A stranger will stop you and ask where it’s from, you’ll say, “I’ll WhatsApp you,” And for thirty seconds, you’ll be best friends, bound by strange shoe choices.
My feet look like they belong to a forest animal. Naturally, I’ve ordered a second pair. I’ll send you the link.
