Alaskan Bulgarian

Hair and the Bathroom

I’ve never really had a problem with the bald of this world. Some people have hair, some people don’t, what’s the deal? Of course, I’ve never lived in an apartment occupied by a bald person, or one once occupied by one, as the case is now. The Spanish guy, who lived in my apartment last year and who I met only once, was going bald in his tenure here. He seemed like an okay guy in our one meeting. I probably would have liked to know him better. But now I have something against him. Something unforgivable. When he left, I guess he kinda, sorta forgot to clean the bathroom.

I’ve given the bathroom occasional cleanings every now and then, the usual steps needed to keep it respectable. But I’d hesitated until now to give it another full makeover after what happened on the first attempt. It was a couple of months ago and the bathroom was looking grungy. In a typical Bulgarian bathroom, the shower is in the middle of the room and dumps water on the sink, mirrors, and toilet paper if you aren’t careful with it. Until the first full cleaning, I had wavered on clearing out the drain, so it was a bit slow. Every shower left a thin film on the tiles that got thicker every day.

On that first cleaning I procrastinated. I started on the walls and moved down to the floor around the drain. I worked the grouting, then the sink, then the toilet. I never looked behind the toilet, for there I feared there might be great terror. Finally, and with great trepidation, I sent the sponge behind the toilet. When it came back, it was covered in a sticky, heavy wad of guck and head hair that was not mine. I looked at my watch, noticed that I was late for dinner, even though I had made no plans. I washed up, and got out of the bathroom as soon as possible.

My failure to do anything then has come back to haunt me. Hair kept getting into the drain, and the bathroom was getting grungy. Something had to be done, and in a cold, poorly heated bathroom, I got down on the wet floor and sent the sponge one more time behind the toilet. This time it came back cleaner, but still full of hair. It took great effort, and a strong stomach, but I finally got the bathroom clean, and Manuel’s curse has been lifted. Now all I have is the “Carnaval ‘99” poster to remind me that a Spanish person once lived here. But the poster is pretty cool, and it looks like the tape might tear away the paint, so that’s going to have to stay. At least the bathroom is clean now, so I have that off my conscience.