HERE IS MY BATHROOM SAGA

I had to write this piece from my bathroom.
I have been trying to decode my bathroom-cum-mystery room anyway.

The shelves look like a personal-care laboratory or a department store. Except there is no salesperson around to explain what I am supposed to do with these 100-odd bottles.

The labels read as if I have a PhD in Personal Care.

Advanced Keratin Complex. Deep Moisture Infusion. Scalp Revitalisation Technology.

Fibre Repair Complex?  I only came in for a shower.

And then there is Damage Repair, written in bold caps, 48-point font.

Repair what? Hair? Skin? Marriage?

I am sure they mention what the product actually is somewhere. But SHAMPOO is written in silver on grey, in 6-point font. Conditioner is written so apologetically that it looks like Terms & Conditions.

Dear Unilever, L’Oréal, P&G and your cousins: some of us prefer to remove our eyeglasses while bathing.

I need two bottles. One for my hair and one for the rest of me. Period.

My face is part of my body. I don’t know about others.

The other day, I stepped out of the bathroom with my hair stiff, erect and smelling of fish. I didn’t have the courage to ask her why she had kept that bottle on my shelf. I thought it was some new shampoo.

Her bottles have magical powers. They fly across to my shelf. I also wonder why she needs 48 bottles.

I put one back. Three new ones appear the next morning.

Suddenly my toothpaste wants to replace my dentist, repair enamel, protect gums, fight cavities, and restore my confidence.

I just want clean teeth. Not a dental treatment plan.

And what’s with purple toothpaste? I thought she had bought it to match the bathroom tiles.

And the new handwash bottle says everything except HANDWASH. For a moment I wondered: Am I supposed to clean the floor with this?

I have understood that the problem isn’t the number of bottles.

It’s that all of them give me their bio before telling me their name.

OTR FOOTNOTES:

She challenged me about her 48 bottles. We counted together. There were 51

48-Hour Moisture Lock! Too much. Six hours should be enough.

Protein Complex — please don’t tell me I have food products lying on my bathroom shelf.

LAST SIP:

My phone knows where I am. I don’t know where my phone is.

As usual, today is Sunday, and this is OFF THE RECORD.