She came in with three bottles and put them on a nearby ledge while she prepared. In the middle of the room, at the press of a button, a cold shower appears from the ceiling. Here, she loosened her bun, and while wearing shorts and a sports bra, fully took her first rinse.
She’d planted her random bottles in the tight space between myself and the wall. Coming over, she sat on the ledge and curled up against the wall with her feet up and popped open a bottle. With a naughty squirt-sound, a sickeningly sweet citrus scent permeated with the heat. And then she began to lather…and lather…and lather.
For the most part, the steam room tends to be silent, like a library. I assume it’s the torture of the heat. Although I do vividly remember a very animated conversation between two coeds about their homecoming dresses including cut, designer, and accessories. When they left, I muttered “thank god” to a chorus of giggles of people who, like myself, had been forced to listen.
So it was noticeable listening to Shampoo Girl’s nails scratch her head as a thick white lather built and suggestively slid down her body. It was a continuous sound similar to a cheap nail file. As the steam went off, she curled her body tighter and scratched louder and with more determination.
After the steam stopped she rose and headed straight for the middle of the room. Hitting the shower button she fully “Flashdanced”; stretching back letting the water and lather leave glistening highlights of newly cleaned flesh. Completely drenched and rinsed she sat back down with her feet up and popped open the same bottle. She repeated the same procedure. Squirt. Scratch. Lather. This was about the time my patience was coming to an end.
I tried to let it go. I told myself this was an unimportant thing. What did it matter to me if she shampooed her hair in the steam room? But in the end it came down to: the steam room wasn’t her bathroom. In fact, more to the point, the steam wasn’t a bathroom! The locker rooms provided more than enough showers with tasteful frosted glass doors. The fact that she was willfully imposing her (slightly) OCD healthy hair regime, which involved shampooing her hair three times, by the way, came across entitled and inconsiderate. This was a shared space with a specific purpose. What are you doing? It had been one of those weeks where I felt a little downtrodden, so to combat that malaise I spoke up.
“You know, there are showers in the ladies locker room.” I pointed out with the perfect blend of sincerity and snark. Sending a massive vibe of “fuck off” she and I locked eyes while she obscenely squirted another helping of shampoo into her hands.
To be completely honest, I was beyond impressed with how she dealt with me. She didn’t flinch. She smiled wide, shook her head eagerly and responded with a cheerily dismissive “Okay!” Message sent. Message received. When she got up to take her third shower, she grabbed her bottles and moved across the steam room away from me; a small, but validating victory.