My mother comes from a long line of good bathers. It is a standing joke amongst my maternal cousins of not having any skin left if we stayed with Grandmaw for more than a night or two. You'd just have to see it to believe it.
Mom carries this tradition on with a modern twist.
She doesn't supervise our baths but does inquire as to what we washed and how many times we washed it.
Stepping out of the shower I wrap in a luxe blue towel and hurry down the hall still dripping wet. Who has time to dry off. My sister is lounged on my bed waiting to beat me at checkers. As soon as I shut the door Mom starts calling my name from the bottom of the stairs.
With my room at the very top landing I am immediate access to mother hollering up the foyer. We have an intercom system but sure as heck don't need it.
"Ivey Mae did you wash your hair?"
"Yes mom."
"Did you wash it twice?"
"Yes."
"Did you condition it?"
"Yes."
"Did you rinse it until the water ran clear?"
"Yes."
Looking at Lucy I roll my eyes because we both know what is next. And sure enough she doesn't let us down. I mock our mother in silence as her words boom up the vaulted ceiling.
"Did you wash your perfume box?"
Defiantly ignoring her question I look at my sister instead.
"God when is she going to quit asking us stuff like this? I'm sixteen. I think I know how to wash my hair and my own stupid bottom. What the heck? When did she stop askin you that?"
My sister groans. "She still tries to ask me. You just don't hear her because your radio is too loud. I am in college for goodness sakes! But you know what she always says."
Lucy Lou stands up and puts both hands on her hips and shakes her head in disgust. Then in her best mom voice, she correctly quotes her.
"Well girls it's called a perfume box for good reason and it can't be washed too often. Marilyn Monroe liked the smell of her perfume box. But she was on drugs."
