So I go to twist the shower faucet, as we are wont to do when, after a bit of sniffing, things aren't up to snuff. The water streams out, hotter than Prince Harry sucking a popcicle. To the left, icier than Christine Gregoire's robot children. To the right again: hotter than a steambath with Australians.
I do this again and again, naked, in the shower, trying to get the right temperature. I'm looking for the happy medium; the central bus station of temperatures, the Israeli Palestinian cease-fire of temperatures. My hair is caked: I put wax in it to smooth out the curls (without wax, I am a walking, talking Pantene Pro-V 'before picture') and I need to get this wax out of my hair so I can go to a gay club and celebrate my last night in london. I need to use my clear goop and my thick goop and rub 'em in my hands and massage 'em into my hair and go aaahhhh like they do in commercials and think about eating lindt truffles slowly and Berlin. But i'm being pummeled by a hail storm, then shoved into a pizza oven, with every slight move of the faucet handle.
15 minutes pass. I stand at the corner of the shower, staring at the volatile waterfall. With enough gall, I can stick my head under the dry ice factory for three minutes- enough time to grab the shampoo, rub it quickly against my hands and massage vigorously. I do this, massaging very vigorously, like a family of newborn ticks and fleas just discovered my head.
Phew. Okay- now the conditioner. Same bit. I've now been in the shower for, oh, around 45 minutes. My relationship with the faucet is like an abusive lover. Sadly, I can't leave him. I need him.
I must wash the lavender goop over me now. I stick one foot under the flame bath: almost unbearable pain. I must do it, though. I must smell like a flower. I hop under the flames and scrub vigorously until all the suds have been washed away.
The horror is over. I am still here. I'm bruised and beaten, but I'm alive. I'm going out.
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