May I Have Another Paper Towel?

Some public bathrooms have a paper towel dispenser that gives you one short piece of towel when you wave at it. Then, if your hands are still wet, you wave again.

This is the part I admire. Drying your hands used to involve taking enough paper to dry your hands. Now the machine issues an opening offer, and you decide whether to negotiate.

You hold your wet hands under the dispenser. Nothing. You move them closer. Still nothing. You wave slowly, like you’re trying not to frighten it. A towel comes out, and you grab it before the machine changes its mind.

It gets one palm dry. Maybe part of a thumb.

So you go back for another. But the dispenser needs a moment. It has just performed a major operation and apparently cannot be rushed. You stand there with one damp hand under a plastic box, waiting for permission to finish a task that started at the sink.

I understand the idea. Touchless is nice in a bathroom. Giving out paper a bit at a time probably keeps people from pulling out a pile. Fair enough. But if the first piece leaves you waving for a second, the machine hasn’t saved much effort. It has just added a pause between towels.

And the waving gets less dignified as it goes on. One pass under the sensor looks normal. By the third, you’re moving your hand back and forth like you’re helping a tiny aircraft land. Anyone walking in at that moment would reasonably assume you’re having trouble with the bathroom.

The towel dispenser has one job. It doesn’t need to recognize me or know where I parked. For that, I’m grateful. It does, however, require me to learn exactly where its invisible little eye is and how long it likes to rest between pieces of paper.

Eventually you get enough towel, dry your hands, and throw the pieces away. The machine has protected the supply by making you ask twice. Maybe three times.

That’s progress, I suppose. The paper towels are now available by appointment.