Soap

The next in my series of essays no one wanted, a detailed look at when I used to wear makeup and put effort into my appearance.

Woman at her Toilette, Berth Morisot

I keep forgetting to replace the soap in the shower. The previous bar has been used up, you see, and now pink soap detritus can be found here and there: on the walls, on the floor of the tub. Victims, all, of vain attempts at using the bar to the very last bit. Now I must spray the whole place down while I stand there, naked and wet, only partially soaped because I keep forgetting to replace the bar and I’ve had to make do with that last little rectangle—which is now a much smaller rectangle abandoned in the drain to melt—and wipe away all that soap residue with the sponge I keep in there for this specific purpose, and curse and moan because I will never be able to get the glass shower doors sparkly clean like in the scrubbing bubbles commercials. 

I step out of the shower and towel myself off—feeling not as clean as I would like on account of the forgotten soap—wrap my hair up in a little twist and get on with the job of Moisturizing. One leg propped up on the toilet seat, steeled and ready to go, I pump a generous portion of Moisturizer into my pruned hands and attempt to force it into my problem areas: the knees first and foremost, followed closely by the dreaded ankles, and then the wretched elbows. It occurs to me that I will never truly know what my elbows look like, what with the directional positioning.

With my skin now creamed and buffed, I wrap myself in my robe and face the mirror. First, more Moisturizing, careful not to neglect the neck, then sunscreen (today’s forecast calls for rain, but nevertheless), then a mysterious shimmery substance that allegedly illuminates the face in order to make one appear well rested and youthful, but also smells vaguely of almonds, then more Moisturizer but this time with a skin colored tint, then concealer for the purple and red bits—pause to flush out the eye with cold water because some concealer got in there—then eyebrows (let’s spare those details), then blush to bring back the color that’s just been covered up by all of that, and then dab a powder to calm down the shine because all of those Moisturizers have made me look wet. 

The face looks vaguely better now so we move on to Satan’s pastime: the hair. I set up for the task with no less ceremony than would be reserved for a religious ritual. Two brushes: one flat, one round. Three products of the liquid variety: a spray to detangle, a spray to heat protect, and a serum to defrizz. And of course, ye olde blow dryer. All the technology in this vast universe cannot outdo the blow dryer, in my opinion. A simple and malicious device that holds the secrets to success, if you could only figure out how to point it at your scalp correctly so as to create a swoop instead of a flip.

Now all that’s missing is clothes. I spend five or ten minutes staring into the closet, hoping an outfit will present itself, and when none does, put on the same sweater and jeans I wore yesterday that are hanging on the rack that I use for clothes that are too clean for the laundry basket and too dirty for the closet. I’m late now, so I stick a piece of toast in my mouth and trip my way out to the car as I dig through my purse in search of the keys, then fumble with the phone to find something to listen to, only to end up singing along to the same Shania Twain song on repeat for the duration of the drive, and it isn’t until I’m getting out of the car to go into work that I realize I forgot to replace the soap in the shower.