scrub.

I shampooed my hair three times in the shower the other day. Accidentally. Sort of. I'll wash my hair twice sometimes, just because it feels better when it rinses the second time. But the other day I washed my hair three times. I think I just wanted that extra minute and a half, that extra 90 seconds it takes to lather and rinse.

The 10-15 minutes I spend in the shower have come to mean a lot to me. In the shower, I can't check my phone. Can't check my email. Can't talk to anyone -- can't ignore anyone. I have no obligation to be doing anything that isn't washing my hair or body. I don't have to think of where else I'm supposed to be or what else I should be doing, because I'm doing something that needs to be done. Like a child, I like to pretend that everything that stresses me out, everything that makes me anxious or sad or hurt or angry, goes down the drain with the suds and water. And I breathe.

Sometimes throughout the day, I feel like I forget to breathe. The moment the water hits my scalp, though, I grow conscious of the fact that I am breathing effortlessly. It comes in gasps at times. It's like seeing the sun for the first time after days of rain, or coming up from under a wave crashing over you in the ocean -- a sense of calm, a sense of relief. It's permission to stop for a while and take care of me. It's 15 minutes where I'm allowed to be okay. Or, maybe, it's 15 minutes where I'm allowed to not be okay.