When I heard that Vogue was advocating dark showering I braced myself for the latest dating trend. Actually, the style bible calls it the ultimate in clean-living wellness — which instantly appeals to me as a millennial — and it involves literally showering in the dark.
It’s the opposite of an energising morning shower or Gwyneth Paltrow’s “extra invigorating” version with a full minute of cold water at the end — though that’s a ritual she developed in Amagansett in the Hamptons in the summer, rather than in a draughty Victorian house conversion in the British spring. A dark shower before bed promises to minimise stimulation and so boost melatonin levels. Doubled with a core temperature drop that happens when you step out of a warm shower, it should signal to the brain that it’s time to sleep.
The average adult needs at least seven hours of sleep a night. According to a YouGov sleep study, 13 per cent of Brits get less than six, and 49 per cent think they don’t get enough sleep. As woo-woo trends go, dark showering seems sound and minimally bonkers. On social media wellness-obsessed Gen Zers share their “sleepy girl” night-time routines of magnesium and cherry juice mocktails, mouth taping to avoid mouth breathing, weighted blankets and white noise.
We’re already warned against screen time before bed and I avoid using what social media refers to as “the big light” (overhead bright spotlights), seeing my way by warm-white lamps — mostly, if I’m honest, because I think bright white bulbs and overhead lighting are an aesthetic crime, with the concession to my circadian rhythm a happy by-product. For the past two winters I’ve started the day with 20 minutes in front of an LED lamp to target seasonal affective disorder. I’ve also tried “light bathing”, which confusingly is done fully dressed and without water. Is this just another gimmick? How bad can it be?
There’s no lamp in my bathroom so my nightly shower is usually spot-lit, times nine, from above. As I position my towel within easy reach ahead of switch-off I realise that I’m an early adopter, having had a dark shower once before when the coin meter that controlled my energy usage at the time ran empty at the wrong moment. I do not remember my sleep that night but if it wasn’t great, then perhaps the process doesn’t work if you go into it with the wrong mindset. Or it might have had something to do with the adrenaline rush of nearly slipping down the stairs you’re dripping water all over while on your way to the meter.
This time around I decide against shaving my legs. My bathroom overlooks back gardens, so there are no street lights, and on a cloudy night like this it’s nearly pitch black until my eyes adjust. Which they don’t, as I’m very short-sighted and can’t wear my contact lenses in the shower. What’s usually soft-focus becomes full sensory deprivation with the lights off. I’m blind as the proverbial bat but without sonar, and there’s not even the usual white noise of the extractor fan, which only turns on with the lights. I am in silence apart from the guttural screeching, coming not from myself in a moment of higher-consciousness release, but from the local foxes.
While I’m in there I’m not sure what to do beyond the usual. I should probably meditate but it’s hard to do deep breathing under a jet of water. There certainly isn’t room for any stretching.
The advice is to take your dark shower 60 to 90 minutes before bed but I’m not sure if I’ll undermine the good of it if I switch the light back on to do my skincare routine and boil the kettle. Reading by lamplight is probably OK but I think staring at the TV for an hour is out.
Rather than risk it, I go straight to bed in what I’m 99 per cent sure are my pyjamas and not the outfit I wore to the post office that afternoon. And I do sleep well, though I think I’m one of the lucky few who usually do. It’s a nice way to wind down in the evening but I might try my next dark shower just a little less dark, if only so I can tell the shampoo from the conditioner.
