It’s a fallacy that males whip in and out of the bathroom’...
AFTER 21 years of being in a majority, I now find myself in a minority at home for the first time. Having been one of three females in a house with two males for so long, it is a shock to find myself the lone standardbearer.
Our daughters have flown the nest to university and more exotic climes, leaving me marvelling at how the shampoo never runs out, why no-one makes smoothies anymore and why no-one ever pinches my bike helmet. Let’s not make gender-stereotypical comments about big heads, but it’s true my helmet doesn’t fit the other two cyclists in my house now.
Having first one, then two daughters was an education in many ways for me and their father. We’d got used to girls by the time their brother came along five years later.
Who would we row with now when we didn’t want to buy a pink bike with uni- corns and silver tassels? If our young son wanted one, would we be stifling his feminine side? But if the girls wanted it, was it right to steer them away from all things pink, girly and, by association, dependent and weak?
Who knew? Thank God for red and yellow Lego.
Women and men are equal and many are more similar or more different for myriad reasons. All I can say is that at our house a few key differences have emerged since the daughters left.
First up – I can never get into bathroom now.
Most women will generally be happy to share a bathroom and even gossip for a while as they shower, bathe and try to locate a toothbrush that is clean and hasn’t been used to remove obstinate nail varnish in a crisis.
If I banged on the door when one of the girls was showering, she would never turn up the waterproof radio and pretend she couldn’t hear me. More likely she would unlock the door in a fug of steam asking if she could borrow something in return for me interrupting.
Men I live with don’t generally want to borrow my bathroom or cosmetic supplies, which has its upsides and downsides. No fellow users means no-one to borrow and steal from as well as no-one who will pilfer your supplies in return.
It’s a fallacy that males whip in and out of the bathroom.
The 16-year-old and 50-something man I live with enjoy painfully long sojourns with a variety of scrubs and sprays while I am begging to be let in to get my favourite hairbrush which I have inadvertently left there.
No fellow women means noone to borrow or steal hairbrushes, clothes and make-up remover from. When mine runs out or is lost, that’s it now. Why don’t men use hairbrushes anyway? They did for a bit when that floppy fringe thing was in.
On the upside, there is always shampoo and conditioner. Men, or at least those I know, seem to use one generic item for their hair (usually the type that would make mine fall out) whereas the young women who have just upped and left appeared to drink quantities of shampoo on a daily basis.
With my fellow partners in crime gone, there is no hiding place when an irritated bloke wants to know who has borrowed and blunted his razor.
“It wasn’t me,” no longer cuts any ice, let alone hair. One of them has even taken to hiding his shaving gear – but be warned, I know where it is. Men can be so sweet like that. Women are very canny when it comes to sniffing out and hunting down essential items to “borrow”. They are also a bit more community-minded, it seems, when it comes to sharing.
Then there’s the clothes. After a very small window when the girls sometimes borrowed some of my clothes, they recently realised they were either too lamb dressed as mutton to bother or that they looked so much better in them than I did that they may as well point that out and have them for good.
Now no-one notices what I am wearing and the washing machine, previously whirring 24/7, is having a rest, which has resulted in the damn thing breaking down. I am apparently the only one who cares about this.
The men who now outnumber me are also overly fond of competing. One of the daughters is, too, but she has left and her attempts at oneupmanship don’t get far on WhatsApp halfway up a mountain in India.
So I am left as their least preferred third party in what had become regular games of world domination board game Risk, with the now-vanished younger daughter.
As the blokes get down to outdoing each other at Risk they tend to forget what I, the third player in reserve, is up to. Which is a great help when you’re silently trying to invade the board and on to victory.
Twice now I’ve won the unwinnable game for the simple reason they weren’t taking my talents at it seriously. Only at the last minute did they realise I was beating them hands down.
Is this a portent? Does it say something about our lives? The son doubts it.
“You’ve always beaten me at backgammon and I never tell you it’s because I’m a boy,” says the son.
True. Maybe I’m over-thinking this whole thing. And no wonder I can’t find my hairbrush.
The son used it cleaning his bike in the oddest act of revenge for stealing a razor ever recorded.