Fast Fashion in the Private Hours

The bathroom is the most neglected room in her home. Not the least decorated—she's renovated it twice, maybe three times. New tile. Better fixtures. The faucet she wanted. The lighting that finally works. She's spent more per square foot here than almost any other room. But the objects inside it—the things she actually touches? The towel was chosen in passing. The bath mat came in a set. The robe was a gift she never replaced. Everything looks considered. Nothing is considered. She renovated the container. She never examined the contents.

This is the room where the costume comes off. The living room is for guests. The kitchen anticipates company. Even the bedroom carries the possibility of being seen. The bathroom is hers. She closes the door. The mirror fogs. Whatever version of herself she performs for the world, she doesn't perform it here. The body before the makeup. The body before the clothes. The body before the posture she arranges for public life. And the towel is the first thing that touches her body.