So I had a shower yesterday. This is significant for a two of reasons. Firstly, I am now clean and have for the moment shed the mantle of itchness next to irritatedness
. Second, I tested out the new shower. I am not entirely pleased.
By which I mean it and me.
The cleanliness achievement did not, alas, come with the rapidity nor the rigor of the water flow that was once there. We are not amused. I am hestitant of course to complain in any measure about our new bathroom but, really, why not? Ah, but a woman's words should exceed her reserve, or what's a blog for?
To explain you need to know that while I am cursed with an ancestral pot-belly... and I have a complexion that seems in constant dire need of brightening
according to the aroma ninjas that criss-cross the cosmetics department aisles I navigate in the department store... While I have failed to rein in my thighs even after spending a staggering amount of money on a three story house that locates the baby's room entirely opposite of the laundry room... while I have these appearance defects I have -- only of late -- discovered I have good hair.
It is in the care of this good hair that I break my silence on the general quality of my coiffure, and make no mistake I have a stylist of considerable fortitude and wisdom as to upbraid my whole theory here. But, still it is not my coy pursuit of annoying my hardworking husband whose toil and industry bankrolls my own private splashy version of McCaig's Folly
that makes me write but instead for the sake of the cuticle. That and the fact that I thought of all of you for a moment or two and wanted you to know when I was in the shower yesterday and deemed this postable.
Back at the ranch... You see I am descended of rather peasant-y stock, as opposed to, I suppose, patrician stock? What who says that? It's always PEASANT STOCK. But I digress... I have the genes of my mother's family, I think, to thank for not just my aforementioned paunch but also my dense, wavy, thick, luxuriant hair. Tresses that cause my stylists to ooh and ah and comment favorably about this attribute while squinting with one eye and blocking out my complete rejection of conventional beauty
-- fuck the establishment! -- and makeup, and the virtues of "exfoliating cloths", etc. etc.
This hair smooth as a bar of dark chocolate, resplendent with curls and thick. Thick, as in, get the fuck out shampoo. Dense and wavy as to contribute to a serious visit to carpal tunnel land if I have not proper and environment-snubbing water pressure to rinse away the phthalates and formaldyhyde of the lather that is all I need to do my 'do'. It's true! I have only in the past few months come to the realization that I am blessed with hair of goodness that is exceptional for its overall willingness to be presentable with nothing but an occassional washing. No primping or perms here, no colours or curling irons, nay my follicle prep even eschews that old standby of any girl who came of age in the 80's, a blow dryer.
I have come to know that my hair is good in no small part thanks to motherhood. Thanks to the times I have over these last 3 years spent with women who erstwhile had a lovely turn out about them but now, as new moms too, appear to be constantly locked in a battle with frizz or limpness or some other such petty attack on their gorgeousness. In this process of observation I deduced that in fact they have previously done quite a lot of 'hairwork'. Man how bad would that suck? I think to myself. I am sooooo lucky. I thank my lucky stars for the wash and wearedness of my good fortune. Hell, in light of the Wo family demands for self-sacrifice I have tested the bonds of wash optional days, pray weeks even.
But I prefer to wash my hair
. I, of course, was in a giddy state of delight as I entered -- queue the harps and angelic ah's -- the new shower. But as I stood in the slow flow of an earth-saving rinse device all I did was tap into my inner whiner cursing and spitting all the while, and it was a long while, for the suds to run down my scalp lazily oh so lazily into the shiny new drain. Imagining how well I should make the case that the low-flow units of today do nothing but make me
use more water as I wait. For one brief moment I pined for the spine tingling and raunchy waterflow of that clunky and inelegant old shower head with its one setting and its chipping chrome... then, save this post, I moved on.
Labels: bathroom blog post of the day, hair, shampoo residue, talk to the armpit