Water logged

I collect all my thoughts in the shower. I make lists, wherein I solve all the world's problems one step at a time.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Sometimes I wish my thoughts were always as orderly as the directions on shampoo. But I don't mind a little less clarity here.

Here, in the shower, is the one place I can bunch up all cares and shove them aside as my kids have done with their soggy washcloths.

Under a sunflower sized spigot, I stand almost immobile for what seems like an eternity as steam and spray dance around me.

But it's not an eternity at all. It's just a ten-minute ritual entirely circumscribed by the small hand of time, which has realigned temporarily with how slowly the faucet can move leftward in the chase for just a little more hot water.

Of course, I find other problems there, too.

The amount of hair I find in the drain makes me take an inventory of my stress levels before I take a moment to wonder if all of it's mine.

Like how the washcloth mountain stands majestically in the corner. Its sedimentary layers mark the number of tourists who haven't received the gospel of Leave No Trace.

A musty washcloth mountain, though, is not a hill on which anyone should choose to die.

There are so many other things that could kill us.

Is that a new mole? Should I be suspicious? How can I not be when it's shaped like Iowa?

I wash my hair with something called "Snow Fairy" gel to take my mind off this new and alarming discovery. The bottle lifts too easily and dispenses too sparsely. Ordinarily, the sweet smell of bubblegum mixed with wintergreen would offer just enough comforting confusion to distract me. Still, I can't stop thinking about the Iowa-shaped threat on my forearm.

Why does it look reddish?

I'll try and calm myself further by noting the color is uniform before I run my finger overtop and find it feels different from skin. I use my nail edge like a chisel, and the whole thing flakes off like paint.

Was it paint? It's possible, but I know I didn't use that color. Maybe it was a scab from a burn I only this moment vaguely remember? How many times have I accidentally touched the edge of a hot cookie sheet with my arm after I'd take it out of the oven? Too many to remember precisely.

Should I be worried about my memory now?

Conditioning. That's all that's left. I squeeze a quarter-sized dollop in the palm of my hand and massage it into the thickest part of my hair: the tangle at the nape of my neck.

Leave it on for at least three minutes for shiner, and silkier hair instructs the label.

The water is cool now, which is perfect, according to another person that visits my shower in the soapy bubbles of memory. "Never wash your hair in hot water," this gruff and bearded apparition says in my brain. They were the words of wisdom he learned from his mother, a hairdresser.

I clawed through the tangle with my fingers as the water grew cold. Reality interrupts with the sharp discomfort of icy pinpricks. 

I turn off the tap and reach for a towel.

Note to self: we're out of shampoo. I should make a list.