A vibrant blue smear of toothpaste and grey-brown clumps of short hairs stand out against the glossy white of the bathroom sink. Evidence of my son brushing his teeth this morning and my husband shaving his stubble.
I’m here to curl my hair with Taylor Swift blasting through a Bluetooth speaker.
Listen to this article in audio form at [Audio] Cleaning Up After Ourselves.
I rinse the sink out, washing away the evidence of other’s use of the bathroom and their hygiene habits. I put the cap on the shaver and holster it in the bathroom cabinet.
Now there is space for me.
I wrap section after section of hair around the curling wand, counting the time by the beats of the music and the lines of lyrics, then letting the hair fall in satisfying ringlets off the wand.
Strands of hair appear on the clear white bench around my wide toothed comb.
I’m quick to swipe them away.
Quick to swipe away the evidence that hair falls from my head; that I shed skin and hair and nails like every other human being on the planet.
Quick to swipe away my use of this shared space, of my hygiene habits, of my existence. As if something falling from my body will taint, mar, and irrevocably scar the surface it touches.
I leave no trace behind me.
No evidence of my hair.
No curling wand cooling beside the toothbrush holders.
And I wonder if this is more than simply being taught to clean up after ourselves. More than being good at cleaning up after ourselves.
I wonder if we, as girls growing into women, have some inner motivation to hide the body we have and to hide the habits we form under the guise of hygiene, in order to present the body of “a woman” to the world.
Any person going through a change, a transition, a life altering experience will look to others who have been through the same or a similar situation to give them hope, guidance, and evidence of what life can look like on the other side.
Boys going through puberty look to men who have come out the other side and they see facial hair, chest hair, leg hair, pubic hair. They hear strong, deep voices. They wake to erections each morning (which in fact they have done so practically since birth) and wet patches in their beds as their bodies begin to produce semen.
Men do not shave their bodies bare of hair. Body hair has been declared a visible sign of masculinity and manliness.
Men may choose to shave their facial hair. It’s simply considered a personal preference much like how they choose to grow or style the hair on their heads.
Learning to shave is an activity that is commonly taught to them by a father, uncle, or older male in their life. It is a rite of passage, a mark of pride, a reminder that their bodies are doing what they are meant to do... they are growing into adulthood. This hair makes their bodies look like the bodies of men they admire.
Girls going through puberty look to women who have come out the other side and they see breasts and wider hips, but they do not see the hair. They see smooth underarms and long smooth legs. Smooth is touchable, smooth is desirable. Or so we’ve been conditioned to believe because we don’t see women with hair being loved and included. We rarely see women with body hair at all.
When girls' bodies begin to grow hair... everywhere, in all the same places as boys through this very same transition. It is not a mark of pride. It doesn’t show that we are growing into adulthood. This hair does not make our bodies look like the bodies of women we admire.
It has been declared that our bodies are wrong. We should not grow hair under our arms, between our legs, on our legs or our faces. And so, we shave our armpits. We shave our legs. We rid our face, our arms, our feet of “unwanted” hair.
It’s something we learn to do in private. We are not often taught to do it except perhaps by an older sister or a cool Aunt. More often we learn from seeing the razor in the shower or the hair removal products on the supermarket shelves.
But we’re not meant to be seen taking care of this hair because we’re meant to pretend that this hair doesn’t exist. That it never existed. That our bodies never changed at all.
We learn to hide our “hygiene” habits, our use of the shared bathroom in which these habits take place. We learn to hide the very existence of these habits and these things our bodies do.
As if they are shameful. As if they make us less of a woman. As if they make us less of the adult identity we are growing into.
An adult who can take care of themselves, take care of their body, and most importantly... clean up after themselves.
I sweep the last random strands of hair from the bathroom sink. I sleeve the barrel of the curling wand as it continues to cool and wrap the cord around the handle, tucking it away in the bathroom drawer.
I leave no trace behind me.
No evidence of my hair.
No curling wand cooling beside the toothbrush holders.
I no longer wonder if this is more than simply being taught to clean up after ourselves.
I no longer wonder why girls are so often better at cleaning up after themselves than boys.
I know.
Post Script
A few weeks later, I'm drying my hair in the same bathroom. I've just had my second shower of the day to wash my hair after going for a swim. It's a chilly day and I'm looking forward to a cosy, warm, dry head of clean, shiny hair.
I haven't washed my hair for a good few days. As I blow it dry strands of hair fall around me, onto the white counter top and into the curved sink. I see them strewn around, making a mess, and I smile to myself.
Yes, that's my hair.
Yes, I was here.
In my own home,
feeling fantastic,
living a day led entirely by desire.
Allowing myself to take up space,
fully expressed.
I left the strands of hair where they fell while I finished blow drying and I let myself be.
Then after I'd packed away the hair dryer and cleared everything else up in the bathroom, only then did I gather up my strands of hair to clean up the bathroom basin.
[ORIGINAL ARTICLE: Cleaning Up After Ourselves, by Kerryn Hewson. 2023.]
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