What Women Want
Every woman would love time in the bathroom where she can enjoy a long, luxurious shower without interruption. Ideally, the water will stay the same temperature for the duration and provide a cocoon-like environment. A peach and walnut exfoliating body scrub, or similar, would be nice along with a fresh loofah. The door will not need to be locked as no one will come in, knock or call out through the door. The bathroom has become a vacuum for the duration of her tenure. She can stand under the hot flow of water for as long as it takes to belt out Heart’s ‘All I Want To Do Is Make Love To You’ into the shampoo bottle, followed by the rest of the album. The acoustics in the bathroom make her sound like Adele. A fresh, sharp razor is at hand and glides up her leg like a yacht cruising sleekly over calm Caribbean waters. Through the steam, her long legs appear smooth as silk and bear an uncanny resemblance to Miranda Kerr’s. When she finally exits the warm waterfall, a hot, fresh towel is ready to engulf her toned and lithe body.
She emerges from the bathroom feeling refreshed and invigorated, even sensual.
What Women Would Settle For
Ideally, when entering the shower, she doesn’t trip on a bath toy but as it’s been known to happen, she really needs to keep an eye out. There will be just enough shampoo and conditioner left to wash her hair, even if they need to be given a curt upside down ‘tap’. The water is hot until someone flushes the toilet but returns to its original temperature rapidly enough to avoid chills and/or burns. Her legs are a little spiky so she reaches for the razor. It’s not too old and only mildly blunt. She gets 3 small cuts which isn’t too bad. She sings the first verse of Beyonce’s ‘Crazy In Love’ before someone bangs on the door telling her to keep it down as they’d like to watch ‘Paw Patrol’ in peace and quiet. Humbled but not broken, she exits the shower cubicle and quickly wraps herself with a dry towel but not before getting a quick glimpse of her body in the mirror and vowing to renew her gym membership before summer.
She emerges from the bathroom feeling acceptably clean, sufficiently hairless and vaguely inadequate.
What Women Actually Get
Once the bathroom is finally free, she grabs her opportunity. It soon becomes clear that someone has had a very recent and productive toilet trip as the bathroom smells like a dead ferret. She lights a few matches and keeps a positive attitude. When she steps into the shower cubicle, there is a big pile of mouldy bath toys blocking the drain. She steps on the severed, mangled arm of a Mermaid Barbie and yelps in pain. She clears away the toys as she waits for the water to heat up, all the while in possession of two nipples that could cut through bathroom tiles. During this time, two children have banged on the door and yelled at her in muffled tones. The first child wants to know, urgently, how dolphins sneeze underwater and the second child informs her that he has finished drawing a picture of Darth Vader that is very lifelike and needs to be viewed immediately.
When the water is finally warm enough she sighs contentedly and reaches for the loofah to use as a microphone, ready to croon Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’. She notices suspicious short, wiry hairs sticking out of the loofah but endeavours to ignore them. Ten seconds into her performance someone bangs on the door and shouts ‘you suck’. Downtrodden, she continues her shower in silence. At this moment, someone elsewhere in the house turns a tap on, causing the shower to turn as frigid as the North Atlantic in January. She turns the hot up to compensate just as the other person turns their tap off and she’s scalded with moderately severe burns to her stomach, chest and neck.
As she reaches for the shampoo, she realises it’s virtually empty. She must turn it upside down and bang on it with the combined force a group of circus folk may use when attempting to nail in Big Top tent pegs during a hurricane. She manages to squeeze out an amount the size of a pea and makes do. With leg hairs at a length acceptable possibly only for Dian Fossey, she reaches for the razor. It’s blunt and rusty. When she’s done the first leg, it looks as though it’s been caressed by an inebriated Edwards Scissorhands and will probably require a tetanus shot.
At this point she notices the family cat sitting in the corner surveying her naked form with a sardonic expression, which is strangely unsettling. Before she has a chance to react there is another bang on the door, accompanied by muffled sobbing. After a few minutes of shouting ‘what…what?’ back and forth, she deciphers that one child has flicked the ear of the other child. This, of course, causing significant psychological trauma and subsequently resulting in a household civil war taking place outside the bathroom door. Forgetting to condition, she sighs, exits the shower and picks up her damp towel, which has fallen into a suspicious looking yellow puddle. She manages to gently cover her scalded body but not before getting a quick glimpse of herself in the mirror and vowing to renew her gym membership today.
She emerges from the bathroom feeling nothing, as this is simply her daily shower experience, and continues her day in the ignorant bliss of a woman unaware she is parading one unshaven leg to the world.