I feel like I haven’t written a blog post in aaaages. I wish this was for a really exciting reason, like I’ve been trekking across America with Taylor Swift, or Antonio Banderas and I had a huge break up and he ran off with my laptop. In reality it’s because I’m trying to read all the Harry Potters in one month as a challenge to myself and I have zero time to write.
So I needed a worthwhile reason to put down Prisoner of Azkaban just as Hazza’s bang in the middle of saving Buckbeak’s life and it turns out that reason is a burning desire to talk about the phenomenon that is being sexy in the shower, because I just pulled a load of hair out my plug hole and thought, this is not the one.
I don’t really do sexy. Sexy doesn’t really do me. Sometimes when I’m drunk I feel a bit loved up in a wanting to kiss all my friends way, but I think that’s because I have the sexiest friends in the world, not because I feel sexy.
It might be something to do with me feeling just a little bit tall and awkward… As a teenager, while all my friends were having sexual awakenings kissing boys in Von Dutch caps on beaches, I was permanently damaging my spine from sinking so low into my hips, desperately trying to make eye-contact with someone who wasn’t a seagull.
What I lack in sexuality though I think I make up for in hair and wit so it’s swings and roundabouts. Anyone can fake sexy with enough lipstick and lace but not everyone can think of instant puns on request or use their plaits as weapons. I feel my sexiest in pyjama shorts and my boyfriend’s old sweatshirts and have grown quite fond of my identity as “sweet” and “oh my god you look so young.”
Now, perhaps I watched too many Herbal Essences adverts growing up, but somewhere along the line I’ve definitely been told that my showers should be loaded with sex appeal. In a similar way to how we should all be turned on by a good yoghurt or a particularly effective air freshener. And this idea of being sexy in the shower fills me with immense curiosity and marginal disgruntlement.
I find showers stressful. I never seem to give myself enough time, I usually injure myself in some way or another and ever since I got told showering was the perfect time to check my breasts for lumps they’ve lost all appeal. Whether it’s a fear of the shower falling on my head, soap in my eyes, scalding myself and having to lie down for several hours after, or realising half way through that I’m definitely allergic to all things Original Source, showers for me as far away from sexy as I am from waking up tomorrow five foot two.
I feel the need to say that I’m mature enough to overcome my discomfort and I do wash. I like being clean, I prefer it to being dirty. But I have no desire to spend longer than the necessary time in the shower and as soon as I’m in I secretly wish it was over…
AM I A CRIMINAL?
However, after years of jumping in and jumping back out of showers faster than you can say “bath mat” one day in the first few months of living in my new house something changed…
We have a really narrow shower in my house. So narrow that if you want to brush conditioner through your hair you need double-jointed elbows and eyes at the back of your head.
The other day I finally decided to come out of hibernation and shave my legs. This is something I usually try to avoid because without contact lenses I have pretty hazardous vision and end up mutilating myself. At this moment in time though if you looked closely through my tights you could see more than one sparkling, golden hair peering enthusiastically through the gaps in the cotton, like a very disappointing version of trying to grow cress in primary school.
So I picked up a razor.
Because I’m dreadful at all shower logistics (in a similar way I’ve never been able to do a double pirouette) I then dropped my razor on the floor mid swipe and bending down to pick it up again in my narrowest of showers, I had to manoeuvre into what turned out to be my first ever fully-bodied, perfectly executed SLUT DROP.
(The man on the train who has been reading this over my shoulder just exhaled loudly.)
Is it acceptable to say slut drop these days? In an ambiguous way I find it quite empowering and now that I’ve mastered its execution I’ll be a bit disappointed if the general consensus is that it’s reductive and outdated – could “razor lunge” be the new slut drop?
On the way back up (“slut incline”? “bathing ascent”?) I pulled a muscle in my groin that meant I struggled to put underwear on for a week, but I couldn’t fight the joyful feeling that I’d finally turned my shower stress on its head. Unfortunately no one was in the bathroom to witness my fitness and my housemate just had to take my word for it as I raced out in a towel turban (read crown of glory) and proclaimed the good news on the landing.
Puberty = defeated. Herbal Essences = slam-dunked.
My joy was short-lived on realising just how badly I’d sliced my leg shaving when I bled through my leggings and wondered if my period had come early. But still. Next stop: leather trousers.
Deep down I think my disconnection with showers goes a little deeper than a quest to be sexy, which, in spite of this entire post, really isn’t top of my agenda, promise. I’m still a lot more upset about not being sent my acceptance letter to Hogwarts than I am about my milkshake not bringing boys to the yard. No, realistically I think my lack of enthusiasm is probably because I’m not very good at having time to myself to think, hate standing still and don’t feel that comfortable in my own skin.
Uh-oh. This bathing story got deep.
Since this sexiest episode of all time though something must have changed inside me. This morning I spontaneously exfoliated just because I felt like it. Not because I was scared I’d fall over in the street, get taken in an ambulance and the paramedic checking me over would feel my slightly bumpy backs of arms. Who is this new me?
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do a slut drop again. It was an epiphany, a one-off occasion where my body defeated all odds in the name of hair removal. I might try body oils next time in the hope I do the splits. I also feel one hundred times sexier knowing that my body’s on my side in times of real need.
When the day comes that beauty adverts show girls crying shampoo tears whilst pulling hair out of the plug hole and clamping cotton wool down on razor grazes I’ll be one hundred percent satisfied…and one hundred percent aroused.
Until then, I shall be keeping it real solo.