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The Great Bathroom Fight never really happened because I was too chicken to start it.  I am the only male in my house.  One man. One wife. Four daughters.  We used to have a male cat (fixed) but he ran away, and I must admit I think about it a lot myself.

Anyway the great Bathroom Fight "started" when Libby was snickering over a little fact found in the back of a Women’s Magazine.

Note: A Women’s Magazine features a scantily clad woman on the cover along with articles about losing ten pounds and eating chocolate.  A Men’s magazine features scantily a clad woman on the cover but pretty much maintains the same theme throughout the whole magazine.

Anyway, the factoid was that women shave 20 times more skin area than men, but men spend 10 times more on shaving products than women do. The not-so-obscure point is that men are money wasting, vain blobs that squander the family funds on shaving cream, while brave women soldier on with soap and rusty razors.

Well, maybe that’s the truth for your average Metrosexual Dandy, but as for me… Let’s take a tour of the Gould bathroom:

My provisions:

• One razor (a 3-blade kind--I haven’t jumped to 4 blades yet--but predict that right now somewhere at a Schick or Gillette super-secret lab the 12 blade razor is being developed.)
•  One container of unused deodorant made with the same perfume they use in those deodorizing pucks they toss in urinals (that’s why it’s unused)
• Three combs (black- the free kind I get from my barber)
• One deal of half used antiperspirant (with thankfully no scent)
• Seven unopened quart jugs of various men’s cologne given to me on various Father’s days (again variations on the urinal puck theme)

That’s it.  If that makes me a self-centered egomaniac--so be it.  But now! Watch me tremble with righteous indignation as I catalogue what the rest of the bathroom holds:

• Three girly razors (the 3-blade kind--colored pink, but that doesn’t stop them from using mine)
• One deluxe can of shaving gel (I use soap- but then again after they are done borrowing my razor, it’s no longer sharp enough to cut anything--20 times more hairy skin you know)
• Twelve square feet of counter space devoted to every conceivable kind of mousse, gel, spray, foam and paste Madison Avenue can dream up.  It’s Hair, for gosh sakes! You spend 80 minutes of mirror time and you still don’t like it- so what’s the point?
• Twenty hairbrushes… Really: there are 20.  And we’re not talking the free kind either.  Apparently each brush has its own ability so unique that it’s worth shouting around the house twice a day for until they find it. I am mentally putting on my running-away shoes on these occasions…

I could go on, but you get the point.  I could have launched on that ridiculous little magazine fact and shredded it to pieces with Concrete Proof! But I didn’t.  Instead, the next morning at breakfast when Libby asked what that horrible smell was, I said “Oh, just some cologne the girls gave me for Father’s Day.”

Revenge is sweet--life affirming. No need to run.

Thankfully, Jeff Gould

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