Preparation H - For hair washing saga

No fewer than seven
and at most three hundred
and sixty five days,
whether the need to bathe
necessary or not marks advent,

when flexible shower hose bent

and warm water issues
out of shower nozzle

dampening brown locks of mine

adrip with sebaceous glands,

(the wife bluntly yet mockingly
recoils from unsightly
smelly spouse (i.e. me),

which induces attention
to strip buck naked in the bathroom,
(and mortified at his reflection
regarding the man in the mirror,
whose flabby abundant
adipose riddled visage immediately
engenders body dysmorphia)
thus with eyes wide shut,

nevertheless I resort
to soap up bare naked self,
and lathering his hirsute trait
that when amply shampooed
and subsequently blow dried
said dude looks
like a lady, especially
after he gets clothed in feminine attire,

hence I cannot circumvent

being an embarrassment to self

affecting the ghost
of me long deceased mother
who when alive found discontent
with the poor hygiene
of her singular male offspring,

whose attention to showering
once every fortnight

and gloating over his
once upon a time fit buff physique

only occurred religiously
on every other Thursday,
the exception being Thanksgiving,
and Christmas if holiday
occurred on a Thursday,
which comes from Old English
Þunresdæg, meaning "Thor's Day,"
named after the Norse god of thunder,
Thor (or the Anglo-Saxon equivalent,
Thunor); This naming follows
a Germanic tradition
called <<!interpretatio germanica>>,
where Roman gods replaced
with their Germanic counterparts
in the Latin calendar,
with Thor being linked to Jupiter,
the Roman god of thunder,
which hopefully explains Romance
language names like
French jeudi (Jupiter's day)

anyway said day of the week decreed
as sudsing yours truly
so I appeared presentable

for contra dancing event
showcasing one spiffy gallivanting gent,
who pranced across the floor
as if courting a young lass
spinning analogous to a whirling dervish

now in truth the remaining
and following lines
according to this modest sexagenarian
admirable poetic prevarication

whipped up as hyperbole

and gingerly guides
thee eyes of anonymous reader
to the scene of lively contra dancers

sometimes knocked down

other persons like tenpins,
who not surprisingly
erupted with guttural

unprintable semantic ejaculations
which the live musicians playing drowned

out despite moaning
and groaning courtesy

as I spun around,

felling one after another comrades,
where guise of guys
attired in dresses that feigned

being injured lying supine
littering the ground,

whereat just moments ago role playing

soon after the caller
iterated hands for four

the scene abruptly
and suddenly changed,

as I no longer sidestepped dancers

thru a field of wild asparagus,
where swallowtails did shutterfly
to and fro, hither and yon,
but attempted to outrun

mythological female body of Medusa;

the mythological female
with snakes for hair,
she said Medusa,
a famous figure
from Greek mythology,
known as one of the three Gorgons
whose gaze turned people to stone,
with live venomous snakes
replacing her hair
a monstrous creature,
but originally a beautiful maiden,
cursed by the goddess Athena
after being assaulted by Poseidon
in Athena's temple,
according to Ovid's version of the myth.