The girls
next door are at it again.
As I
mentioned a few weeks ago (here), I don’t know them very well. One of them has
this annoying habit of leaving toilet paper on the bathroom counter. It’s
disgusting and unhygienic and it makes me very glad I know a few things about
bathroom etiquette.
I should
also mention I didn't learn these things until my senior year of high school.
It all
started one bright summer day as me and my friend Taylor were driving to see
the latest Harry Potter movie. I mentioned to her that my parents, upon passing
a burger joint, had remarked that the frying grease smelled remarkable like
me. “Do I . . . smell bad?” I asked. I
was prepared for a loud, “Of course not!” or a quiet, “Well, maybe just a little.”
I don't see what's wrong with smelling like this. This is delicious. |
I got a
resounding, “Of course you do! Yes! Yes, you stink! I am dreading the thought
of having to sit next to you in a movie theater for the next three hours!
Haven’t you ever heard of soap?”
“Soap?” I
said. “I use it to . . . wash my hands.”
“And how
often do you wash your body with it?” she said, eyes aglow with righteous
flame.
“I . . .”
This was bad. I could see no other way around it. “You’re supposed to wash your
body with it? Really?”
Let me
explain. I knew what soap was for. But ever since I’d been six years old and
deemed old enough to shower on my own, my mother always told me, “Use shampoo
and conditioner. Don’t forget shampoo and conditioner! Did you remember to
shampoo and condition your hair?” So I just got into the habit of walking into
the shower, pouring shampoo on my head, and topping it off with a little
conditioner. I could get in and out of the shower in five minutes. It was
great. My mother would sniff the top of my head, nod in approval, and permit me
to go watch TV.
But
apparently, when you’re running five miles every day in the July heat, shampoo
and conditioner just don’t cut it anymore. So for the next few weeks, Taylor reminded me
constantly to use soap and treated me like a complete idiot.
When the
school year began, I innocently asked my friend Sarah what she did to keep her
hair so soft. She laughed quietly and said, “Oh, Liz, you’re so sweet. I just
use shampoo and conditioner.” Considering her hair was about ten times softer
than mine, I had another sinking feeling that I was doing something terribly
wrong.
“How
exactly do you use them?” I asked.
Taylor, who
was also there, helpfully added, “She didn’t know how to use soap until I told
her about it.”
Sarah
looked confused. “Well, Liz, I just pour a little shampoo in the palm of my
hand and work it into a lather—”
“A lather?
What’s that?”
Well, now Taylor cracked up. “You
don’t know what a lather is? Who taught you how to shower?”
“My mother
did!” I shouted. Note—if you ask my mother about this, she swears she taught me
about lathering. I don’t argue with her on this, because the odds I forgot what
she told me are much better than the odds she never taught me how to wash
myself.
So we had a
running joke for a while about me needing shower lessons. Then, when we ended
up in a hotel for a cross-country overnight meet, somehow I actually ended up
getting shower lessons.
Now, it’s a
bit difficult for a girl as conservative as Sarah to actively demonstrate to
another female how to take a proper shower, so she just stood outside the
curtain and gave polite instructions.
“Get your
hair wet,” was the first one. I obeyed. Then I stuck my head out of the curtain
and asked if I’d done it right. She touched my head and sighed. “Here. Stick it
back under the water until all of it
is wet.”
When you
can’t even wet your hair properly, you know you need shower lessons. So I held
my head under the spout until water was running out of my hair. Once Sarah
approved of my scalp wetness, she grabbed one of the little hotel shampoos and
began rubbing it into my head.
“Feel that,”
she said.
I reached
up and ran my fingers through my hair. To my surprise, the crown of my head was
coated in some kind of soft, puffy mass—bubbles! I had foamy bubbles in my
hair! “This is so cool,” I said. She laughed quietly.
“This is a
lather. Rinse it out and try on your own.”
It took me
two tries, but I finally managed to do it. Sarah was very impressed. We quickly
moved on to conditioner. Surprisingly, you’re only supposed to put it in the
bottom of your hair. Did you know that? And you’re supposed to comb it through
with your fingers.
Now I knew
we’d moved into the realms of advance skill, the likes of which mortals tremble
to behold. After rinsing the conditioner from my hair, I felt a new exhilaration
sweep over me. My hair fell down my shoulders like a curtain of liquid silk.
Unfortunately,
I ended up running a race in the noonday heat the next day, so it got all
sweaty and stuff. But all’s well that ends well. Now, if only Taylor would stop telling me how to brush my
teeth. I think I know that much.
Maybe.