Sandy Slaga

Anatomy of a Teenage Bathroom

Fortunately for my eighteen-year-old son, my methodical vacuuming of the family room this morning saved him from being the subject of a post entitled Anatomy of a Murder, In Cold Blood or even Murder on the Menopause Express.

Unfortunately for my eighteen-year-old son, the toilet is front and center when one walks by the always open door to his bathroom. Also unfortunately for him, his bedroom and bathroom are located adjacent to a major thoroughfare in our house, that being the hallway leading from the family room to the garage. And, of course, he has a fifty-year-old estrogen deficient mother in mid-life crisis. The perfect storm.

If I close my eyes, hold my breath, stick my fingers in my ears and drone “I can’t see you!”, it is possible to walk by my son’s bathroom and keep going. This, however, is futile. The hair beckons.

Hair. Copious amounts. On every surface, horizontal or vertical, in his bathroom. On top of the toilet tank. The sides of the tank. On the seat. Under the lid. In the little hinge things that connect the lid to the seat. On the rim. At the base. Behind the toilet. God help me it’s in the sink. Behind the faucet. And the shower? Don’t make me go there.

There is hair in places where there shouldn’t be hair. And it’s hair from areas of his body that … well, let’s just say it’s hair.

The amount of hair in various locales of his bathroom might lead one to believe that my son is walking around with no hair on his body. I assure you, that is not the case.

You’d think with the amount of dried toothpaste and shaving cream residue in his sink that the hairs would congregate there, all nice and matted. Or that the hand towel which hangs next to the sink and that my son treats as a wall hanging would step up and attract a few strays. Certainly the aerosol-driven wind gusts from the assorted cannisters of body spray should herd the little suckers into a corner.

Not to be. The hair is there.

Fortunately for my son, my week-long angst sees the light at the end of the hair. It’s Friday. Cleaning day again in Teenland.

Ain’t life grand?