am surprised to discover that the strands feel soft as silk on my fingertips and don't require conditioner.
The other squares spring into action. The steam gradually dissipates and gentle jets of water stream out. A small piece of the tiled wall lifts up and a shelf slides out with a loofah brush resting on it. I grab it and rinse it under one of the squares and discover there is soap inside of it. I scrub myself from head to toe with it, not once but twice.
I stand in the flow of water coming at me from more directions than I can count. The pressure of the jets is perfect against my skin. The temperature of the water increases slightly, as if picking up on my mental cues.
For the remaining three minutes of my shower I try to let the heat melt my tension and nervous energy away. Once I reach the two-minute mark on the timer, the keypad warns me every thirty seconds with a delicate beep how much time remains. When the shower gradually comes to a stop, I step out and reach for a towel from the heated shelf nearby.
The towels provided are so velvety soft and warm they feel like heaven on my skin. I effortlessly run a comb through my hair and mentally wish that I had this shampoo and conditioner combination to use every day. I brush my teeth and rinse with the mouthwash provided. The alcohol stings my mouth, feeling like red-hot fire on the inside of my cheeks.
With nothing left to clean, I head back to the bag. Its outer layer has vanished. It no longer feels like plastic, but thick and rubbery. I pull the tab across the top of the bag to open it. Inside are a plain white bra and panties in my size, a pair of charcoal gray scrub pants, and a long sleeve, white, zip-front shirt with a turtleneck collar. The same logo I have seen on every employee's chest adorns my shirt as well. In the bottom of the bag is a set of plain, white socks and a pair of black leather clogs, similar to those that nurses wear.
The zipper of the shirt feels cold against my skin. I give the bag one more look to see if there is a t-shirt or a tank top inside. To my disappointment, there isn’t. The scrub pants have pockets affording me the opportunity to safely store our room key. Before putting in, I drop it in the sink and let the hot water run over it for a minute. Better safe than sorry.
My thoughts turn to my hair. Normally after a shower I twist my hair into a quick braid. Having surrendered all of my personal belongings, that have since disappeared, I have nothing to hold my hair together with. The few shelves that are around the sink are mostly bare, aside from the essentials I have already used. It seems as though my nearly waist length hair should be tied back in some way before I enter a sterile environment. I decide that I will ask whomever I see outside the door this question.
Before heading out, I give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. “What have you gotten yourself into?” I ask myself out loud. I shake off my doubts and take a deep breath before pressing the latch on the door to exit the room. The room I step into is not at all what I was expecting to see. It appears to be a small, yet elegant beauty salon.
The space is somewhat octagonal in shape. The ceiling is incredibly high and pointed, almost like the inside of a large tent. Burgundy velvet fabric is elegantly draped from the highest point in the room, billowing down along the angle of the ceiling toward the wall. An enormous chandelier hangs in the center of the room, several feet below the apex of the ceiling, yet very far out of my reach. The walls around me are covered in deep red wallpaper with an even darker red damask print embossed upon it.
There are four stylist stations set up in the center of the room, each with an ornately framed mirror surrounded by globe lights. A small table sits under each mirror, holding various styling tools. A tall cherry cabinet stands to the side of every station, back to back with another, each stowing a collection of products and implements.