2006-07-20 - 9:33 p.m.

Of my body's myriad failings - insomnia, unnecessary sweating, alopecia, the gout, crabbit bowels, nascent beer belly, inability to grow a convincing moustache etc etc - by far the most egregious fault lies atop my noggin. I have the Greasiest Hair of All Time. Circus greasy. Greasier than an Itallian mechanic. Greasier than Michael Barrymore caressing a Scottish breakfast, greasier than... you get the idea. Well, no you don't. Not even close. It is I, not you, who struggles to peal his purulent locks from his sodden pillow every afternoon. I haven't had to buy olive oil since I was yay high - I just dangle my slippery bonce over the pan and let the grim torrent of gunk lubricate my cauldron. There's the ruined shirts, the falling hats, the slippery floors, the jeering hordes, the sheer itchy funk of despair - all daily hazards and constant thorns. Nothing works. No spells, incantations or curses have cured my affliction. Every day I sit at my desk while the horrid globules ooze from my barnet, dripping down my face to form coagulating pools of shame. But no longer! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this any more! I will embark on a truly unpleasant experiment. A desparate action from a desparate man. The ultimate sacrifice. I am going to stop using shampoo until my hair starts cleaning itself.

I tired this once before, back in the early 90s, but then my resolve was not of sufficient potency. I blew it. My dream of a dry, fluffy mane quashed under a deluge of cowardice. It will be different this time. Free from peer pressure and acne, I am of stronger mind and character, meaning that I can meet this tonsorial test with renewed vigour and determination. It's been 10 days without the application of chemical goo so far and I'm not even flinching. It's happening, my friends. I can feel it in my waters, nay, my very soul! No folicular milquetoast, I! This is a stand against conformity, a cocked snook to the Man. I will not buckle under the wait of oleaginous pressure, but wear my decrepitude with the pride of a non-conforminst. I will no longer line the pockets of the Sham Poo money-men for an inferior product that promises shine and yields nary a twinkle. As a consumer and layabout, I will no longer genuflect before the aspirational alter of bogus hygiene and impossible standards. From now on my locks will be greased not with snake oil but with natural balm. It will work. It has to. I will do it.

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