Showering with Bing

Alright, I'm back from my shower.

Let's begin by telling you guys a bit about my shower facilities. Like many college aged gentlemen, I am forced to engage in the rigmarole that entails community shower facilities. Thankfully, even with an all-male floor, my cohorts are fairly well behaved in the bathroom, and as such it's not nearly as nightmarish as some horror stories that I've heard from some older friends and my brother, three years my senior. The facilities are clean, free of mildew, and have a certain charm to them for some reason. The water pressure is a bit low, but that's alright; I have learned to deal with these sorts of things. Besides, I've found that the second stall on the right has the highest pressure, and make attempts to utilize this one whenever possible, which is frequently, due to my habit of taking showers at night.

I have been taking showers at night for several years now, stemming from the growing of my hair, which started in 8th grade, and ended about two months ago. You see, I could never wake up early enough to wash my hair and maintain its sheen and still have time for it to dry. I've always hated using hair dryers, and towel drying, even with brushing; can lead to various tangled affairs which are no fun to deal with.

Even now, with my hair being much, much shorter than it was, I still maintain that habit, due to the fact that taking my showers before bedtime allows me to have free run of the bathroom, which grants me the boon of always getting stall number two, which is wonderful. I've been thinking of switching off to morning showers, because the way that my hair naturally dries imparts a wonderful styling all its own that I can't replicate with a brush or comb, but that's another story altogether.

I began my trek to the washroom by stripping down to my blue and green plaid skivvies, a ritual to which my roommate has become accustomed, and he wouldn't give a rat's ass either way; we frequently just lounge around in our underwear in the room in an entirely heterosexual manner. I grabbed a fresh towel and three plastic bottles, one of shampoo, another of conditioner, and the last of body wash. I liked the body wash the best, even if the conditioner came in a purple bottle (Which is my favorite color, hands down), because the body wash is a wonderfully bright green.

I exited my room, bottles and towel in hand, but not before retrieving my key ring; I can't get into the bathroom without my dorm room key, after all. On my way down the hall, I happened across my jovial floor president, Joe. He smiled genially, apparently amused at my near nakedness. I shot him wry thumbs up and a grin, completing our evening rapport. Being a floor of nothing but men, you get used to seeing each other parade around in their underwear all the time; it's just something that happens.

I entered the bathroom and, of course, it was empty, thanks to my unusual habit of showering in the evening, before bedtime. It's a good way of winding down, and it ensures that I don't have to change my sheets nearly as often, because I'm clean when I get into bed. Shower stall number two was open, which brightened the experience all the more. I quickly made my way in to the stall and placed the bottles and my set of keys on a small metal shelf, which is at about nipple height for me. I've been five feet nine inches for about a year now, which is just about the average height for a white American male, though all of my friends are at least six feet tall, so I've consistently felt that I'm slightly shorter than everyone. It certainly doesn't help that most of the boys on my floor are also just as tall. Eh, I'm fine with being of moderate height; it allows me to be dashing, yet unassuming. I could make a conman out of myself yet if I tried, being able to slip in and out of a crowd, unnoticed and unremarkable.

I removed my skivvies and placed them on a nearby hangar like clockwork. I hung my towel over the modest pair of underwear so as to ensure its dryness at the end of my shower, and because I would need to retrieve it first.

Now nude, I drew the inner curtain and turned the silver handle, which controlled temperature, but had no way to regulate flow. Fine by me; this stall consistently outperforms the rest. No need to get picky. I extended a hand, though the backsplash on my shin was enough to gauge the temperature of the water, and waited until the stream was of sufficient temperature. Once it had peaked out at what I assume would be around 105 degrees Fahrenheit, give or take of course, I entered the stream.

Under normal circumstances, I would have wetted my hair down first, so as to ensure its silky texture in any way I could after I had finished up. But today I was feeling particularly dirty, as I had just endured a long car ride back to school from home (About an hour or so, not including a stop for dinner along the way), and I had neglected to bathe that morning. As such, I felt that my areas below the belt were in need of attention first and foremost. I will not go into greater detail, but I will say that I was immensely satisfied after the initial rinse.

Wasting no time, I retrieved the first bottle; a green bottle containing Pert shampoo. The brand of my products never really occurred as a major factor to me. After all, soap is soap. I mean, I would certainly fork out the few extra cents to buy name brand shampoo over generic, but the cola wars of hair care products are lost on me, even with my array of fairly effeminate tendencies. As I soaped up my dirty blonde hair, I began to sing.
I'd always been a musical person, and vocal performance has been a passion of mine since I was knee high on a corgi. I'm not a music major, though I think that my voice could easily contest. I don't think of myself as egotistical; throughout my adolescence I had never really thought of myself as too good at anything. These days, stating that I'm good at something is something of a way of empowering myself, or perhaps something of a coping mechanism. I don't know. I'm no psychoanalyst. Besides, JB, introspection is for losers.

Feeling festive, I broke out in a rendition of "Winter Wonderland," as popularized by Bing Crosby and so many other artists throughout the years. My vocal range reaches from high tenor to low baritone, so I think I did Der Bingle justice in my imitation of his inflections and vocal mannerisms. As I entered the repeat, I rinsed my hair and extended my right hand once more.

The small metal shelf produced a purple bottle; Aussie brand hair conditioner. I had always loved their commercials; the tagline, "Put some Roo in your Do" had always appealed to me. I think it's clever, and I have a soft spot for rhymes of any sort. I used perhaps a bit more conditioner than I should have; slightly larger than a quarter. That's fine, though. I exchange frugality for a greater volume and silkiness in my hair. Besides, the bottles never run out at the same time, so any attempt to do so is essentially futile and adds fuck all to the enjoyment of my showers.

As I began to lather my hair with conditioner, I started singing "Wingtips," a smooth, upbeat lounge piece by the ska/swing revivalist band, the Cherry Poppin' Daddies. The Daddies are one of my favorite bands of all time, even if their lyrics can be more than eccentric at some points. Their lead singer, Steve Perry (Though not of Journey fame), is truly a unique vocalist, and his lyrics are poetry at the core, dealing with issues such as alcoholism, abusive parents, cheating lovers, the death of friends, and the fading of relationships in an upbeat, friendly manner. That, and I've always admired musicians that can display true musical skill in their performances. The Daddies, being a swing/ska band, call for a fair bit of mechanical prowess when performing and composing their music, which is something that a fellow musician appreciates immensely. I'm not too much a fan of the Ramones.

Last, but certainly not least, came the body wash. To accent and complete the cleansing of my particularly dirty bits, the description of which I will not detail further, the green lather was essential in the final feeling of cleanliness. Continuing with my musical theme, I broke out in another Daddies song, "Soul Cadillac," a slow, happy tune about a blue collar working man who meets his dream girl and his life finally changes for the better. I paid special attention to scrubbing clean my undercarriage and applying generous lather to my armpits and face, though the concept of rubbing my face with the same hands that just rubbed my testicles could be a bit off putting in retrospect, I would imagine that everything is plenty clean at this juncture, so cross contamination is something of a moot point.

During my final rinse, I heard the door to the washroom slam shut; someone had joined me. Not being one to cut out on a song, I continued with my happy tune whilst drying myself off, even if it was in a slightly hushed tone out of respect to my floor-mate. I took certain care to dry everything off except for my hair. You see, when it dries naturally, it styles itself in a manner to which I've become appreciative and accustomed. And even with a night of sleeping on it, it retains its full body and luster come the morning.

I gathered my bottles and donned my dirty underwear, slinging the towel across my neck so as to collect any errant drips from my hair; a wet back on a desk chair is unpleasant, as anyone can tell you. As I exited the stall, I hit a high note in my falsetto range. It's something that I'm proud of, but for the gentleman at the urinal I'm sure it was unexpected, so I had to quiet myself, but only slightly. Unfortunately, I toned myself down just enough to where the note was audible, but broken. I almost entirely missed the basket, one could say, but thankfully recovered with a swift lay up as I exited the bathroom. I continued my song to the end, which cut out just as I reached my door at the end of the hall.

Now, I sit in a fresh pair of undershorts and my sleeping pants, recounting my evening shower in far, far too much detail. My roommate sits across from me, playing EVE Online on his laptop, and my bespectacled best friend from down the hall, clad in leather jacket, jeans, and Chucks, checks Homestuck tumblrs and chats with a friend on Skype. All in all, this evening has been pretty decent; a fine conclusion to a fantastic day.