I was exploring the submarine Becuna, down at the Philadelphia waterfront. I stepped inside the seamen’s bathroom. 

Although that bathroom hadn’t been used in years, I found myself shrinking from the walls. I wanted nothing in that bathroom touching me. 

Part of it was stepping over the high lip of the door to enter the bathroom.  

I’m not sure why stepping over that lip made my skin crawl. Was it the hampered exit? My fear of being trapped in a closed space filling with water? How ridiculous I am? 

Does it even matter? 

I took a cursory glance around the bathroom.  

Then I got out. 

I mean, there wasn’t much to see. It’s a bathroom. 

But also, I’m very picky about bathrooms. 

Because hair freaks me out. 

Specifically, wet hair. 

Is there anything worse than wet hair? Even when it’s yours, it’s gross. 

And if you get it on you?  

Gah. Forget it.  

My whole life, Indy had a head of thick, silver hair.  

Indy’s hair used to clog our shower drain. The water, unable to get down the drain, would fill the tub even in the briefest of showers. 

As the tub filled, the hair would dislodge. There was imminent danger of that hair gliding across your feet, tangling in your toes, assailing your ankle. 

I wouldn’t even start the shower if I saw Indy’s hair in the drain. I’d track him down, insist he remove it. 

But Indy, well. He was a do-it-yourselfer. A pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guy.  

He also worked, like, 80 hours a week. In a physically demanding job. 

So Indy would tell me to take care of the hair myself. 

“But it’s your hair,” I’d whine.  

Or snark, depending on my life stage. 

Indy would sigh, put down his Marine Corps Gazette, and get rid of the hair. 

Because I was his favorite. 

And if I was his favorite after that whole thing, imagine how awful my siblings were. 

I lived alone for about five glorious minutes after I moved from Indy’s. And though my hair is long, it is very blond. In a white fiberglass shower, the illusion I leave behind no hair stands strong. 

Then I married a guy with a head of thick black hair. 

So I could blame all the bathroom hair on him. 

Unsurprisingly. 

Two decades — and then some — in, that head of hair has taken on an adorable salt and pepper color. 

Yes. I realize that neither my husband nor my father had gray hair until they encountered me. 

But to be fair, my husband should have seen those gray hairs coming. It’s not like he never saw Indy’s silver locks.  

Each time I climb into my shower, I stand, my face soap hand held aloft —

Wait. You probably need an explanation. 

I squeeze face soap into my hand before I climb into the shower. 

Why, you ask? 

Well, because my face soap comes in a pretty container. And it’s made by Gwyneth Paltrow. 

Gwyneth Paltrow. 

I refuse to leave my face soap in the shower. For the cap to fill with water. For the soap scum and water stains and maybe even mildew to mar its lovely packaging. For it to get moved. 

Because, when you share a bathroom with someone, your stuff will get moved. It’s inexorable. 

Oh, you can have all the specific places for your stuff you want. But water plus soap plus six feet of husband is going to equal things moved around. 

And what if my Gwyneth products fell on the shower floor? Shower floors are the worst. 

So I squeeze the soap into my hand and hold that hand high, careful not to touch the shower walls as I climb in. 

Shower walls, too, are gross.  

I mean, did you really expect me to be all like, “Oooh, shower walls are so wonderful!”? 

I survey the shower, looking for errant black hairs.  

Oh, they’re there. Even if you think they aren’t. Check behind the shampoo bottles. Under the bar soap. Check the walls, the corners. 

Landmines identified, I’ll grab the showerhead from its cradle, aim the stream of water at those dark strands, and wash them down the drain. 

Only then does my shower commence. 

Sometimes, I think about those exchanges with Indy. About his hair in the drain. 

I think about our old house, the one I grew up in, sold six years ago by Indy and Willie. They moved on my birthday. 

Does the bathroom still have the seashell motif? Does the linen closet still smell like Vick’s VapoRub and dryer sheets? Does my old room still get hot in the winter, frigid in the summer? 

Would I like to go back? Spend one more day with Indy in that house? See his hair in the drain and know he’s alive and well? 

No.  

That’s gross. 

But thanks for asking.