Soap slivers, shampoo and scars

As the hot water splashes against my nude body, I’m in search of shampoo. But I can’t find any. The shower is filled with body washes, conditioners and skin creams. My shower, which was once a one bar of soap and White Rain kind of place, has been turned into the Mecca of creams and oils. When I finally find “Zinc” shampoo amidst the 17 other bottles of fancy named stuff, the hot water runs out.

It’s my little brother’s bathroom now. I haven’t permanently lived here in eight years, and he has long curly blond hair. He’s a guitar player and I’m a short-haired meat and potatoes kind of fellow. Needless to say, he cares a lot more about his hair than I do mine. Shoot, all I need is a bar of Zest and I’m good to go.

This is just one example of how things are different for me. In Iraq, I had to walk through gravel and share a shower trailer with five or six other swinging Joes. After awhile, you got used to it, but I can’t say I enjoyed the shower situation. And now, the bathroom is just a few feet away and I don’t have to worry about soap slivers clogging the drain. I need not worry about mortars falling through the ceiling and not once has the power went out while I’m scrubbing behind my ears. Peace of mind in the shower is truly bliss. My old shower trailer looked like Swiss cheese after a rocket attack, and every morning the Turkish workers walked in – while I’m showering – to clean the place. Once, the guy actually opened my shower curtain. This man violated my privacy; he saw me naked. I would have turned him in, but he’d get fired and those poor guys really need the work. However, I let him know that my private parts are private in my best Turkish. So as you can imagine, even showering in Iraq was stressful. At home, it’s nice and peaceful.

The showering life will be perfect after I buy some White Rain; it’s the cheapest stuff in the store.