Ok, hear me out.
Today was an especially long day. Not necessarily in a bad way – just in the sense that between all those wake times and nap times and bedtimes, some days just feel like 7 mini days instead of one normal sized one, you know?
9pm rolls around and I decide: The hair needs to be washed. It has been 6 days. Just get up from the glider (which lives in the living room after we discovered that it would not fit up our narrow AF stairwell), and go and get in the shower. Go. You will NOT regret this.
I walk into the bathroom and there – slung over the glass door is one of the white towels I washed and hung up on the towel ladder this afternoon. And it isn’t just any white towel – it’s my FAVOURITE white towel. They’re all white but they’re not all equal. There are a few in the bunch that I really look forward to.
I get that that’s a bit weird, but it’s true.
So naturally, now I’m pissed because it is damp and ruined.
Just get in the shower – let it go – grab the silver medal towel and get on with it.
So I get in there, and start trying to detangle and shampoo at the same damn time because I don’t even know what is going on with that mop right now.
I swear, it didn’t feel like it had all these knots in it when it was dry, but anyway; now it does and now I’m pasting GIANT CLUMPS of hair all over the shower wall again because postpartum hair loss is a bitch.
I rinse it all out and the water finally runs all over my scalp and it feels like heaven cometh (side note: “scalp” is actually in my top 5 least favourite words in the English language; “moist” is in there too).
I grab the soap and begin the process of washing the important bits at my armpits. Fuck I need to shave them – this is not a good look.
I lather them up and as I lather I start thinking about tomorrow and what I should wear (yep, I think of tomorrow’s outfits in today’s showers); somehow in the process I just wash myself off, totally forgetting that I’d intended on shaving my pits, until I’m washing my face – then I remember.
UGH. Lather, Shave, One final rinse, and out.
I grab the shitty silver medal towel and quickly dry off with it and hang it back up.
My sweats go back on, my tee goes back on but the bra stays on the floor for a while. Somehow, still, I feel like a new woman.
I walk out of the bathroom thinking, “I wonder how many women have had this goddamn shower before – could this be the previously undiscovered foundation of the sisterhood?”
At this point, it would not surprise me one bit if it was.
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