Back to pube-hating

As a youth, every evening before my shower I would begin by turning on the water, removing the showerhead from its cradle, and spraying down the pubic hairs stuck to the tile and tub walls. I’d try not to touch the snake-like black threads left by my father as if they were contaminated with an unknown uncleanliness. And when one wouldn't release its hold on the moisture laden lines of grout or slimy green bar of Irish Spring, I would puddle water in my hand and dump it on the stubborn corkscrew-shaped creature. I’d often shudder if it came to scraping the hair off of the soap, as I rejected direct contact with them as much as the feeling of green residue collected under my fingernail, a crescent reminder of my proximity to that which I abhorred. As I entered college and lived in a series of dorms and group houses, I became accustomed to the sight of pubes in my lavatory, and it didn't bother me as much. It became a silent game of guessing from which housemate the stray follicle departed, perhaps due to a rigorous toweling or firm application of Old Spice stick deodorant. The main giveaway was its color, but also noteworthy was the thinness or thickness, contorting or squiggle shape, and of course, sheer length. But now, as I soley occupy a studio apartment, I alone am responsible for hairs left abound, whether they be pasted on tile circa la toilette, plugged obnoxiously between the fibers of my pure white bathroom mat, or marauding across the laminate wood floor as pubic dust bunnies from hell, disgusting all those who offer a passing glance. And now that invisible video camera of my life records me back in the bathroom hating pubes, careful not to let them stick to my fingers as I dump water over the tub basin walls, one cupped handful at a time.