So if you didn’t know, we moved house a few months ago.
One of the attractions of the new place was the shower. Showers are (as I’m sure you know, unless you don’t, in which case I’m sorry) awesome. So yeah, we have a shower now. And water to shower in, of course. That’s important too. Okay. We have a shower and water to shower in.
I have dreadlocks. I’ve had dreadlocks on and off (mostly on, but sometimes off, but only rarely, you understand) since I was nineteen years old. That is sixteen years of having dreadlocks. Which have grown, been cut off, grown again, got snipped again, and been left to grow. Again. And grow long. Like, shoulder-length.
So, where are we? Oh, yes. I have a shower, and water to shower in. I also have dreadlocks down to my shoulders.
Now, if you know anything about dreadlocks, or hair in general, or anything at all (unless you don’t know anything about hair, or anything, in which case I’m sorry) then you’ll know that you do not wash your dreadlocks unless you’re getting a retouch immediately after.
Yes, it’s true. When you see a rasta man, his hair is probably unwashed. For a while. Some of it smells after remaining unwashed for a while. Mine actually smells like cigarette smoke after a particularly drunken (hence smoke-filled, since I generally only smoke when I’m drinking, you understand) night. Or day. Or day-night. You understand.
Anyway, so there’s a shower. There are dreadlocks. So, to protect the dreadlocks from the (daily, of course, what do I look like, cleanliness is next to godliness, you understand) shower, we need shower caps.
Now, the Mouse has always had shower caps lying around. When we moved, I think she only had one. It was one of those flimsy ones you get in a hotel. The clear ones. The ones which aren’t durable. At all. Especially when appropriated by a man in general, and a me in particular.
With my dreadlocks.
So that one died. And she bought new ones. Notice the plural. Shower CAPS. And they kept getting torn, because of, well, the obvious reasons. I do have dreadlocks.
And an inordinately large head.
So, she’s been finding her shower caps stretched, holes torn into the edges, tossed nonchalantly around the bathroom (cleanliness is next to godliness, but there’s nothing said about tidiness, you understand).
Now, being the highly intelligent being that she is, the Mouse decides, okay, solution, I’m gonna buy two strong shower caps, one for me, one for him. So she does, and proudly presents them the other day. One for you, one for me.
Mine is, like, beige. Or maybe off-white. Or cream. With, surprisingly, small purple flowers on it. And it’s made of some pretty firm stuff, I’ve noticed. Good one. Hers is a kind of limey, bright-ish, shiny green. And it has lacey frills around the edges. Also made of what appears to be proper bio-hazard, Hulk-can’t-tear-this, strong, troll-condoms-are-made-of-this, dinosaur-hide kind of stuff. There’s only one problem.
Hers is bigger than mine.
Now, I’m not saying this in a I’m-the-daddy-I-get-the-bigger-drumstick kind of way. This is not that. This is simply about the size of my head, compared to her (extremely beautiful, you understand) head. And my dreadlocks, which you know by now (if you believe me, unless you don’t, which is okay, you understand) are shoulder-length dreadlocks.
Anyway, so I just took a nice long shower (she’s at work, so cat is away, take your time, you understand) and I’m like, hmmmmm … I mean, it’s got lacey frills on the edges, but since the cat’s away, why not? Let’s try it. So I put on her green, shiny shower cap with lacey frills.
Never has a shower cap been more comfortable, and looked more ridiculous, at the same fucking time. I mean, I stuffed all my hair in, and it fit well, albeit (inevitably, because, well, shoulder-length, you understand) a little snugly in the back.
So now I’m faced with the dilemma of returning to my own smaller, beige (or off-white, or cream), ill-fitting shower cap, or permanently reverting to her green, shiny, lace-frilled one.
Which, as you’ve deducted and deduced and discovered from all the shit I’ve said above, I will probably have destroyed in, oh, a week (give or take, because sometimes you just wanna sit in a bath, you understand) or so.
Now that, my friends, is what we call a Middle Class Problem.
I am, like, so stressed.