I fling open the bathroom door; the music’s faded to an echo behind me. Changing from an animated, alcohol-infused body to an almost dominant, defiant “boet” body, I scan the room. To the left, three urinals protrude from the wall – all filled with men standing open-legged paying no mind to each other.
Every morning I wake, the FIRST thing I do after brewing a cup of coffee, lighting up a cigarette, and opening my curtains (Okay. So maybe what I’m about to delve into is not necessarily the FIRST thing I do, but it’s my first conscious engagement. Just follow, please), I walk over to my mirror, (over)analyse my body, my hair, my skin – all of my imperfections. It’s a frequented interaction – and usually my first for the day – where I blast my body with “you can change this… you could get that fixed… you could be a few shades lighter”.