Early afternoon. I step into the shower to wash off last night’s debauchery.

Yesterday afternoon I had left my bar of soap on the left rear edge of the bathtub. Today, my bar of soap is on the right-hand ledge in front of me. My bar of soap is not where I left it yesterday afternoon.

Furthermore, perched on top of my bar of soap is a hair from a certain part of the body.

This grisly discovery takes me back to the days when Bloomfield House was an all-bachelor domain. The boys would be too lazy to buy their own soap, shampoo and toothpaste. So they would help themselves to mine.

I am a generous sort and would only complain once in a while.

Upon discovering hairs from a certain part of the body on my bar of soap, I would nevertheless feel a twinge of resentment. I would ruefully abandon my bar of soap to “the cause.” I would proceed to unwrap a completely fresh bar of soap.

Please do not think me uptight.

A nice hot shower, first thing out of bed, is one of the highlights of my day. It is a time to wash away the cares of this world. A time to symbolically freshen myself.

It is my time, for me.

Unfortunately, however, my regimen of personal rejuvenation always receives somewhat of a jolt whenever I pick up my bar of soap and find it inhabited by a wiry reminder of another man’s nether parts.

I’m supposed to rub this all over my body?