Powder under the insole

Two surfaces rubbing, or air being squeezed out from between them, and yes, for a while. Five separate conversations — the widest agreement in these conversations — dust baby powder, talc or cornstarch under the insole or on the footbed, and say the squeak or the suction noise stops; the powder sits between the two surfaces so they slide instead of gripping, and takes up the sweat that makes foam grip skin. Three accounts say they had the same squelch from similar foam slides, and four more had the same problem in similar footwear, so if yours is a slide, you are in company. Where the noise is skin on foam, one conversation lists the barriers — a sock, toe socks, a felt insole, a coat of waterproofing spray on the footbed — and one account adds moleskin or a heel-grip sticker where the heel lands; and one account uses an antiperspirant or deodorant on the foot itself, which is the same idea as the powder from the other side. One exchange, three accounts to two, is whether the powder is a fix at all: three say it works and is simple, two say it works only briefly, looks grubby and gets worse once the foot sweats — and the accounts’ own decider is whether you want silence now or a clean shoe later; how long the powder keeps working on foam is a gap the accounts named. One account goes further and puts small holes or grooves in the footbed so the air escapes instead of squeaking; two cautions say that is permanent and may weaken the shoe or its water resistance. One caution says tape gets hot and sweaty, shifts and leaves residue that adds to the noise. And the exchange that decides the whole page, four accounts to three: four say fix the shoe — socks, powder, holes — and three say return it, give it away or bin it; the accounts’ decider is what the shoe means to you against how much the noise annoys you. One account, for balance, says the noise is funny and they have simply learned to live with it.

Same cause, different layer, and the same fix in a different place. In a lace-up or a work shoe the creak is usually the insole moving against the midsole, or the tongue against the upper, or a leather sole against a hard floor; the people here treat the first with the same powder — lift the insole, dust the base under it, replace — and one account uses a felt or fabric insole so the two surfaces stop being plastic on plastic. If the squeak is the sole itself on a polished floor, one account scores the bottom of high heels so they stop slipping; that is permanent, like the holes, and this page passes it on as theirs. Whether a new shoe should need breaking in at all is argued by the people here — which is the third question. Two things the accounts flag for a creaking shoe that are not about noise: a caution says feet swell as you walk, so a shoe tried on sitting still can be bought too small, and one account says to test a shoe on a hard floor rather than the shop carpet, which flatters everything. If the noise is a dress shoe on tile in a quiet office, the people here have nothing for you: footwear other than trainers and slides is a gap the accounts named.

The people here argue this one properly, so here are the sides, the methods and the fence. The argument first. One exchange, three accounts to four, is whether shoes need breaking in at all: three say new shoes — for work especially — need it, by wearing, soaking or freezing; four say there is no such thing, that a shoe which hurts on day one is the wrong size or badly made, and that trying to break in a shoe that does not fit only damages it. A second, three to two, is fix-or-return, and the accounts’ decider is the shoe: expensive, needed for work or sentimental — try to stretch it; cheap and replaceable — return it. A third, two to three, and a fourth across two conversations, two to three, are about the freezer method itself, and the deciders are what the shoe is made of and how its seams hold. The methods, as the accounts describe them and with their cautions attached. Wear them for short stretches indoors first — three separate conversations say so, and it costs nothing; one account buys only from shops with a returns policy and wears the pair indoors for a full day before deciding. The hairdryer: warm the tight spot while wearing thick socks, flex the foot, let it cool on the foot — one account prefers this to the freezer because it moulds the shoe to your foot rather than to a bag of ice. A spray of rubbing alcohol and water on the inside of a leather shoe, worn while damp — a caution says inside only, because alcohol strips polish, and a contraindication says never on fake leather, which is plastic and only gets stripped. The freezer: a bag of water inside each shoe, frozen overnight, so the ice stretches the shoe as it expands — two conversations swear by it and two accounts say it has saved heels, boots and loafers many times; against it, one caution rated high, three accounts strong, says fill the bag no more than half or it bursts, another rated high says some shoes are damaged by any aggressive method, one says a cheap glued insole comes away under the pressure, two say leather can crack or stiffen in the cold, three say the water expands into the weak seams rather than the stiff leather. Gentler versions, one account each: dried beans in a bag instead of water, a wooden shoe stretcher or shoe trees, or a cobbler’s stretching, which one account says spares the insole. One account soaks one particular make of leather boat shoe in salt water for twenty minutes and wears it dry — canvas shoes are a gap the accounts named, with the caution that it fades unless both shoes are treated alike. The fence, from two contraindications: none of this is for a cheap, glued or synthetic shoe you cannot afford to ruin, and nothing goes in a microwave. This page’s own position, marked as its own: if it hurts in the shop, the four accounts are right and it is the wrong shoe; if it is a good shoe that is a fraction tight, wear it indoors, then the hairdryer, then a stretcher, and the freezer last and half-full.

Get measured, and the people here mean measured properly, though they argue about who can do it. Three separate conversations say discomfort is mostly wrong sizing — length, width and depth — and that a shop with a proper measuring device and staff who know how to use it is the baseline; single accounts add that sizing varies between makers and even between models from the same maker, that width sizes exist well beyond ‘medium’ and ‘wide’ and that one account says a shoe that fits in length but pinches should go wider, not longer, that feet are at their largest at the end of the day so that is when to try shoes on, and that one foot is usually larger than the other — buy for the larger, and pad the smaller, or, for a big difference, buy two sizes or use an odd-shoe exchange, which one account says exists as a charity. One exchange, one account each way, is whether professional measuring is even needed — one says any shop has the tool and it takes no training, the other that the tool missed their size difference and arch mismatch until a specialist found them; two cautions say shop staff are often untrained and that not every ‘professional’ measurement is worth having. One account traces both feet on paper and measures the tracing if no shop can be trusted. One exchange, one to two, is price: one says you must spend properly at a specialist shop, two say cheaper cushioned shoes suited them better than expensive leather that needed breaking in; the decider is your feet. One caution says people with very large sizes have few choices, and another that wide shoes are scarce in fast fashion. The rule of thumb the accounts share: a thumb’s width at the toe, room to wiggle, and a shoe that fits comfortably immediately — one account says a good shoe needs no breaking in at all, and if it does, look again at the size.

Then the people here send you past the powder to two other places, and this page follows them. First, socks. Four separate conversations say the friction that blisters is between skin and sock, and moving it to between two socks — a thin liner under a thicker sock, or a purpose-made double-layer sock — stops most of it; single accounts add that thin cheap socks blister worst, that thick work socks help, and that a foot balm or moleskin on the hot spots does the rest. One exchange, one account each way, says thick socks make the feet sweat and sweat blisters too; the decider is your own feet and a sock that wicks. Second, and this is the line the page carries as the accounts’ own and not as a diagnosis: if you blister in every shoe you own, one exchange — three accounts to two — and another, four to one, argue whether that is a fit problem or a medical one, and neither settles it; one side of the second says a podiatrist’s diagnosis is what tells you which, and this page’s own line is to get properly measured first, because a skin condition or a joint condition that lets the foot move too much inside the shoe can be the cause, and a podiatrist rather than a shoe shop is who finds it. One caution says the joint condition is specific and not everyone with blisters has it; the accounts’ own test for the skin condition is whether your hands blister easily too, or whether it runs in your family — a question for the appointment, not for this page. One account says that for some people fitting solves only part of it and treatment is still needed, and one says walking mechanics, which a physiotherapist looks at, can be the cause. This page is about a shoe that squeaks and a shoe that pinches; the foot that blisters in everything has its own doctor.