Hairassment Charges

I pay a lot of money to go to this school. Would I say it’s worth it? Absolutely. The classes are both challenging and interesting and the professors that teach them are dedicated, intelligent, and un-afraid to drop the F-Bomb on a daily basis. The food is bearable, but any lack of taste or concern for health is made up for by the charismatic staff who prepare our daily meals. I’ve become accustomed to being called “Bebe Gurl” weeknights at 7 and am consistently confident that my Saturday morning hangovers will always be mended by perfectly prepared cage free eggs. Over easy with a runny yolk, to be exact. I could go on about the innumerable idiosyncrasies that I’ve grown to love and will encourage my father to continue to support for the next few years, but that would be far too positive. This complaint has nothing to do with what this school provides. It is whom this school provides to that is the root of my dilemma.

I live in a dorm. It isn’t the nicest building on campus; the elevators are constantly broken, it has recently become the victim of a tagging fad, and the triples (specifically mine) are far from spacious, but it’s cozy. I’ve grown to love this building and call it my home. When people who live in the more up-to-date dormitories scoff at the Little Building, I stand strong and defend my territory. But because this is the only building on campus that doesn’t solely include suites, we have communal bathrooms on each floor, just like most colleges do. It has, of course, been an adjustment. The shower caddy system is far from ideal and walking to the other end of the hall in the middle of the night to use the bathroom isn’t the most convenient situation, but I accepted the lifestyle and with time, grew to embrace it. If nothing else, I’ve gained confidence in my natural appearance. Being faced with an entire tour group as I strutted down the hallway in my towel and shower sandals really did a lot for me. I suggest you all try it sometime; it’ll do you wonders.

All of these things, I can handle. But the issue arises when I step into the shower. Towel tied around my torso and shower caddy in hand, I walk into the stall and begin to set up shop. Sleepy-eyed (I’m a morning showerer), I place my shampoo, conditioner, face wash, and body wash on the ledges provided. I hang up the towel and turn the water on. The pressure isn’t ideal, but it’ll do. The water heats up quickly and I step inside. A splash to the face and I’m wide-awake. And consequently, all too aware of my surroundings.

I know that girls are not hypoallergenic poodles, and therefore shed their hair every once in a while. But I also know that maintenance cleans these things at least twice a day. How in the world did this supposed white shower stall become what appears to be the victim of a cat’s hairball infused sneeze? Long, thin, brown hairs create intricate designs on the walls. Medium lenghth’d blonde strands intertwine with them in bulky patches to create Aztec-esque patterns. Is someone here going bald, I wonder? A short, curly, black one sits on the ledge, all too close to my Pantene conditioner. I’m afraid to look again. Paralyzed, I stand motionless, arms in line with my body, afraid of interacting with these ophidian tresses. Is the long brown one dangling from my Neutrogena face wash mine, or is it the discarded filamentous biomaterial of this shower’s last constituent? With hesitation and vigilance, my arms muster up the courage to leave my side, reaching for the shampoo. As I stick my elbows out to lather up my own locks, I close my eyes to avoid acknowledging my probable interaction with the hair on the walls around me. I continue in this manner and proceed as necessary.

But the days when I shave my legs are the worst. Already an irritating chore, I’m forced to come face to face – or at least in closer quarters – with the floor. If I thought the walls were furry, the ground was shaggier than a Burmese Mountain Dog. Every time I get down there, I feel like Snow White lost in the Black Forrest. Now, I’m not a gynecologist or a trichologist, nor am I the mother of these young ladies whom I share quarters with, but did nobody ever hear of trimming? Staples must have been out of stock orientation week, because I’m pretty sure no one on this floor owns a pair of scissors.

But alas, I do not judge. To each follicle her own, but I’d prefer if we kept it that way. My time in the shower is when I am supposed to feel my cleanliest; surrounded by soap and water and isolated in a rectangular prism that is immune to the world’s grunge. But these fifteen minutes of my day are repeatedly and cyclically filled with trepidation. Is it so difficult to wipe away your discarded strands of keratin once you’ve finished bathing? Is it too much to ask that you see that your secret garden’s weeds make their way down the drain?

Maybe I’ll ask the Consuela (the maintenance lady) to coffee so that we can exchange grievances. Maybe together we can fight for justice and end this nightmare once and for all. But alas, I’ll be saying a final goodbye to group showers in a few weeks, and might become too caught up in the glory of a completely hygienic shower to bother with the past. My apologies in advance to you, Conny.