TMI Thursday: Hair Soap

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So, when I was a teenager, I didn't have the greatest complexion. In fact, it's still not what you'd call "alabaster" or "angellic" or "a non-greasy, sticky, white hot mess", but my skin isn't as riddled with blemishes as it was when I was, oh, say, 15.

Now, unfortunately, at age 15 (or, well, way before age 15), guys start noticing girls. More specifically, guys want to start putting parts of their bodies into parts of the girls bodies. And, in order to do this, one must start dating. And, in order to start dating, one usually has to be somewhat and relatively zit free.

Alas, this was not my situation. For the dating or the zit-free existence that would help to remedy the lack of dating. This then leads to prolonged bouts of furious masturbation, which--according to my mother--led to more acne. But, that's a story for another day.

However, that was pretty much my mother's solution to how to clear up my blemish issues: don't touch yourself, don't eat fudge, wash your hair, and you'll be acne free. Well, I washed my hair, I didn't eat fudge, and I hated myself shortly after I touched myself. Apparently, my mother's the Know-It-All didn't know dick.

Now, despite the fact that there were a myriad of products on the market that one could purchase for their child in order for him to secure dates keep a clear complexion, my mother relied on "home remedies".

"Here," she'd say, passing me a newspaper clipping, "I read this is hints from Heloise. You should try it."

I would look up with a heady of mixture of revulsion and disbelief on my face after reading it. "It says to smear the yolk of a raw egg on my face," I reported, as if she hadn't read it, clipped it, and then handed it to me.

"Yep, your father bought you some eggs. They're in the refrigerator. I'll show you how to separate the yolks from the whites." And off we went. As we were in the kitchen, my mother reminded me that this was a valuable tool for cooking, and that I could surprise some nice girl someday by making a recipe that called for just egg yolks. That recipe, of course, was atherosclerosis, and pretty much every girl to whom I've ever offered that has politely declined.

So, there I would sit in the evenings, splitting open an egg and carefully separating the yolk from the albumen, and then I'd take the mass of raw, yellow goo and smear it over my face. I would sit there until it dried. Oh, what a grand time I had, staring into the mirror, the face of Grigg or The Thing looking back at me. Oh, and all the clever puns I made to myself in the bathroom. "Wow, if [insert current crush's name here] could see you now, you'd certainly have egg on your face!" And, "Oh, if [insert teacher's name here] could see you now, you'd sure have egg on your face!" And then I would peel the hideous, flaky yellow mask off.

Predictably, things didn't get much better. Well, I think the yolk helped to rip the heads off the zits, but that was about it. Plus, after a while, I began to pick up a faint sulfury smell.

Now the ladies were flocking to me!

When I turned 16, I knew I had to do something. When I got my license, I started driving to Target (where my high school girlfriend would end up working) where I discovered that there was a whole panoply of anti-acne medications, creams, wipes, soaps and any other kind of hygienic product you could imagine. Giddy, I bought some Oxyclean wipes, some cream to place upon the zits I already had, and some special soap to use on my face. I went home, I washed my face with the soap, wiped with the pad, and put the cream on the egregious pustules of pus hanging from my forehead and cheeks.

I put the soap in the shower, thinking that I would use it when I took my showers.

Bear in mind, I had used the soap once. Remember that.

The next day, I got up and was getting ready for school. My father had already been up and showered, made his coffee and was reading the paper. I acknowledged him as I trudged toward the bathroom. We had two bathrooms in the house, but the shower upstairs only had a basin that was about three inches high, so if I took *ahem* long showers *innocent whistles* I'd flood the bathroom and my mom would bitch at me. Plus, the water in that shower smelled slightly fetid. Mmm...fetid water and sulfur.

I haul my ass into the shower and I turn on the water, get in, go about my usual routine: arms, chest, shoulders, stomach, groin, legs, groin, knees, groin, shins, groin, feet, groin, rinse. I then wash my hair and rinse and I go to wash my face, and the excitement is building within me. I was going to use the soap I specifically purchased to help me clear up my acne problem and now I'd get a girlfriend and I'd see some tits and--JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY IS MY ANTI-ACNE SOAP COVERED IN SHORT, DARK, CURLY HAIRS???

As I brought the soap up toward my face, I could clearly see at least a dozen short-and-curlies decorating the otherwise pristine surface of my soap. The soap I specifically bought for me. To go on my face. Not on my father's ballsack.

I held the soap in the stream of the water from the showerhead and rinsed the pubes away. I also hoped to get the latent ballsweatfunk off the surface of my soap. And then, just to be safe, I used the same soap I had washed my body with.

The next day, I returned to Target and bought myself a soap carrier, so I could hide the soap away from my father's nefarious nether regions.