Photograph by Shaw + Shaw
The other day, my 10-year-old asked me how many grams of clay it would take to build a life-size bath. I had no idea. He looked at me as though I’d failed him, which, technically, I had. But it did get me thinking: why am I, a fully grown adult, so emotionally attached to the idea of a bath that even my child assumes I’d be able to build one from scratch?
I wasn’t always a bath person. I grew up in London with very African, cleanliness-obsessed parents, where bathing meant a bucket bath or a shower. The concept of lying in a tub of water was met with confusion. How do you get clean if you’re basically marinating in your own dirt? Today, like every bath evangelist, I understand the purpose of a bath. Bathing isn’t really about washing. It’s about recalibration. You arrive twitchy and wired; you leave a slightly better human. Which is why, when I travel for work, I like a hotel room with a bath. It just needs to be there. A reminder that if the day collapses, I can wallow in hot water instead of my own tears.
The Romans understood the power of a bath – though if we’re being honest, it was less about self-care and more about empire-building. Business deals, political scheming, gossip: all conducted mid-steam. Japan still elevates the ritual – communal “onsens” which allow visitors to soak quietly, respectfully, in contemplation.
Temperature, of course, is everything. The sweet spot is somewhere between 37C and 40C. (How does one measure? You just know. Or, if you’re a pedant, you buy a thermometer.) Science tells us that is where cortisol (the stress hormone) retreats and endorphins (the happy hormone) make a triumphant entrance. The rage subsides and you stop hating everyone.
Related articles:
Reading in the bath doesn’t work. One half of your brain is on the story while the other is fretting about your book ending up like a rain-soaked mattress dumped in a skip. Stressful. Far wiser to listen to silence. Or in my case, Radio 4, where the news and the comedy are equally grim. The familiarity of this is comforting.
Other essentials: oils and smelly things. Because lying in plain water will make you feel as joyless as a boiled potato. Bamford, 39BC, Perfumer H and Buly 1803 all have potions that transform the experience. Suddenly, you’re no longer in your own bathroom with dodgy grout, but a luxury spa.
When you finally leave the bath, problems shrink back into proportion, people seem tolerable again, the world looks improved. There is no argument that showers are better for the planet. They are faster, cheaper, more sensible. But sometimes sense isn’t the point. Sometimes survival is. Sometimes the only thing standing between you and despair is a hot bath, ludicrously priced oils, the delusion that for half an hour, everything is fine. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Five-minute miracle Naturium are known for their gentle yet powerful and efficacious formulas, and this AHA exfoliating mask is the result of the brand’s fans bemoaning the fact that so many such masks currently on the market are really drying and irritating. This mask uses a combination of rice powders, glycolic and lactic acid, which help to remove dead skin cells and even out texture, while also brightening and hydrating the skin. And it does it all in just five minutes. Naturium AHA Exfoliating Mask 10%, £22, SpaceNK
Versatile friend Time is something no one has enough of – so a multi-purpose beauty product that actually works is a thing of, well, beauty. Like Gisou’s Styling Cream. Powered by Mirsalehi honey and milk proteins, it hydrates, controls frizz, adds shine, curls waves and styles poker-straight. Oh, and it smells great. Gisou Honey Milk 5-in-1 Styling Cream, £27, Gisou
Buttered up This cleanser is so buttery, you might be tempted to eat it (but seriously – don’t). Instead, slather it on and watch as your skin drinks it up, leaving it plump, hydrated and glowing with youthfulness. It gets rid of the day’s grime and makeup without stripping. Dry skin? Make a beeline — this one’s for you. Origins Youthtopia Apple Butter Cleansing Balm, £29, Origins
Editor’s note: our recommendations are chosen independently by our journalists. The Observer may earn a small commission if a reader clicks a link and purchases a recommended product. This revenue helps support Observer journalism.