sometimes you really do need to wash your hair
When I was a kid my mom would lay me on the kitchen counter with my head hanging into the sink to wash my hair. "Look at the goldfish," she'd say when she wanted me to turn my head to the right. For the left, she'd say, "Look at the clock. What does it spell?" "C-L-O-C-K." No, really--our kitchen clock was a white plastic rectangular box with
C
L
O C K
The O was the clock face itself.
Time went on and I got old enough to take showers and wash my own hair. But there was still shampoo on the kitchen counter. Mom's the kind of person who only washes her hair a few times a week, and not always in the shower, so she'd wash her hair while leaning over the kitchen sink. Sometimes I'd do it, too.
When I graduated from grammar school, my parents asked me what I wanted for a graduation gift. "My own bedroom," I said. I love my younger sister and had fun sharing a room with her, but my INFPness was becoming stronger, and I needed a place of my own. So they built me a bedroom, and I moved down to the basement. It was a fitting move for me; as a kid I loved the sound of the washing machine going through its cycles, and would often make myself a little bed just so I could listen to the lub-lub-lub and the water rushing into the sink.
Having a sink to myself meant more hair washing, whenever I wanted. Sometimes I'd wash my hair if I didn't have enough time to take a shower (I hadn't yet perfected the art of short showering). I'd rinse the chlorine out of my hair after swimming. And late at night, when the world was quiet but my mind was not, I'd lean over the sink and let the warm water run over my hair. I'd tilt farther so that the water could wash away the salty tears that happen all too often when you are a teen-aged girl with untreated depression. The sound of the water splashing in the sink was soothing, bringing to mind the yellow chairs and crocheted blankets of my childhood laundry day beds. After I had shampooed and rinsed I'd give myself a short blast of cool water, re-energizing and reawakening myself.
The hair washing ceased when I became an adult and moved out on my own. There was no one to disturb with late-night showering, so I didn't need to lean over a sink if I required some tumbling water for my mind. Three a.m. showers became routine. If I wanted to wash my hair, it'd have to be in the shower anyway, as my kitchen was frequently too messy for personal care.
That's changed in the past month. I did some massive cleaning because my sister was bringing the kids over, and that gave me the excuse to finally work hard on keeping the house in decent shape. So on Friday night when I was exhausted from five hours of spreadsheets, I turned back to that old ritual. I gathered some sample shampoo & conditioner that I brought back from Disney World, grabbed a towel, and leaned over the sink to let the spray massage the exhaustion away. I got water everywhere. The memories of a hundred hair washings wandered through my mind. I spelled C-L-O-C-K; I saw the shampoo and conditioner standing next to the dish soap; I smelled salt and lint. The night was no longer weary. I had attained the peace that only water could bring.
C
L
O C K
The O was the clock face itself.
Time went on and I got old enough to take showers and wash my own hair. But there was still shampoo on the kitchen counter. Mom's the kind of person who only washes her hair a few times a week, and not always in the shower, so she'd wash her hair while leaning over the kitchen sink. Sometimes I'd do it, too.
When I graduated from grammar school, my parents asked me what I wanted for a graduation gift. "My own bedroom," I said. I love my younger sister and had fun sharing a room with her, but my INFPness was becoming stronger, and I needed a place of my own. So they built me a bedroom, and I moved down to the basement. It was a fitting move for me; as a kid I loved the sound of the washing machine going through its cycles, and would often make myself a little bed just so I could listen to the lub-lub-lub and the water rushing into the sink.
Having a sink to myself meant more hair washing, whenever I wanted. Sometimes I'd wash my hair if I didn't have enough time to take a shower (I hadn't yet perfected the art of short showering). I'd rinse the chlorine out of my hair after swimming. And late at night, when the world was quiet but my mind was not, I'd lean over the sink and let the warm water run over my hair. I'd tilt farther so that the water could wash away the salty tears that happen all too often when you are a teen-aged girl with untreated depression. The sound of the water splashing in the sink was soothing, bringing to mind the yellow chairs and crocheted blankets of my childhood laundry day beds. After I had shampooed and rinsed I'd give myself a short blast of cool water, re-energizing and reawakening myself.
The hair washing ceased when I became an adult and moved out on my own. There was no one to disturb with late-night showering, so I didn't need to lean over a sink if I required some tumbling water for my mind. Three a.m. showers became routine. If I wanted to wash my hair, it'd have to be in the shower anyway, as my kitchen was frequently too messy for personal care.
That's changed in the past month. I did some massive cleaning because my sister was bringing the kids over, and that gave me the excuse to finally work hard on keeping the house in decent shape. So on Friday night when I was exhausted from five hours of spreadsheets, I turned back to that old ritual. I gathered some sample shampoo & conditioner that I brought back from Disney World, grabbed a towel, and leaned over the sink to let the spray massage the exhaustion away. I got water everywhere. The memories of a hundred hair washings wandered through my mind. I spelled C-L-O-C-K; I saw the shampoo and conditioner standing next to the dish soap; I smelled salt and lint. The night was no longer weary. I had attained the peace that only water could bring.