Shampoo

Fellow men, shampoo is an everyday item, used by every family in the land. 

Well, nearly every family. There’s one household that doesn’t use it, and they don’t miss it. They don’t miss the grunge and mould that it encourages on the shower glass, they don’t miss the expense of it (can you believe the price of some shampoos?), they don’t miss the fake, chemical-induced smell. They don’t miss the ridiculous names––‘sexy hair’, for goodness sake.  

That household is me. 

Let us travel back to quieter, gentler times; 1994 England. Guildford, Surrey, England, to be precise. I am a mature-age university student, not-hard-at-work studying psychology and sociology. Living on student loans, I discover the uni bar and fall into a serious relationship with Murphy’s Irish Stout. This love affair keeps me impoverished, and some regular purchases have to be jettisoned. 

Having previously fallen into a relationship with an expensive shampoo that supposedly revived your hair after it had been ‘burnt out’ by over-use of other shampoos, I decided to just wash my hair in water. 

I also, at the same time, stopped visiting the expensive designer salon in Guildford’s High Street, Toni & Guy, where a haircut was mortgage money. I sought out a men’s barber and lowered my expectations, and to my delight got a better haircut for a tenth of the price. 

Hairdressers across the land would be horrified at my decision––they would argue that hair needs nurturing if one is to look one’s best. And I agree, a good cut can do wonders for one’s sex appeal. But the expensive cut only looks good for one day––a good night’s sleep and the ruffled, scraggy mop that greets you next morning is much harder to pull into line and have you turning heads at the office. 

Back to the story. 1994. I am a frequent visitor to the uni bar and I don’t have a girlfriend. I’d like to think the two aren’t mutually inclusive (correlation is not causation, as my psychology lecturers kept drumming into us) but I haven’t yet managed to incorporate a girlfriend with a life that includes drinking strong alcohol. I’m living and sleeping in the tiny room that all first year students at the University of Surrey get to inhabit and cram to the gunnels with text books, pot plants and posters. I’m in my room crying, because the squeezed-out last of my shampoo got in my eyes. What can I say––I’m a delicate little flower with sensitive eyes. I’m crying, I’m cursing, I’m carrying on like a pork chop. Standing there in my forest green M&S pure cotton dressing gown, I’m still wet from the shower and feeling sorry for myself. 

I pop some Aphex Twin onto the CD player to calm my nerves, and wonderful ambient tones caress my ears and help soothe the Alpha Male savage beast that is me in my dreams. 

It was there and then that I vowed to not replace the shampoo bottle and instead begin my life of rebelliousness. I deliberately unhooked myself from corporate overlords and removed myself from the merry-go-round that is the personal care industry. An industry, let us not forget, that is valued––in just Australia alone––at US$3.73BN in 2020. There is a lot of corporate interest in fanning the human desire to shave, shower, and shampoo. 

Now, I must clear the air here––I am not some tree-hugging hippy who goes around in tie-dyed t-shirts, cargo shorts and Jesus sandals. Now retired, for many years I was a corporate consultant, travelling the world preaching the benefits of social media to curious CEOs and CMOs. I eschewed a suit for most of the time, but I shopped heavily at Gazman and had a wardrobe full of the obligatory IT staple, the black t-shirt. My initial decision to go shampoo-less was not some ideological stand, but merely pecuniary. It was shampoo versus Murphy’s, and we can all guess how that was going to go. 

So, how has this shampoo-less life worked out for me? Well, I had thinning hair anyway, so don’t look at my receding hair now and lay the blame at my decision to go with the Murphy’s. My retiree’s beard is thick and has never been touched by shampoo. I noted back in 1994 that my hair wasn’t as fluffy after washing it with just water, but a Number Two haircut from my then barber John meant that a lack of fluffiness wasn’t an issue for my otherwise devastating good looks. Ahem. I’ve never been much of a Ladies Man, not being an Alpha, so I can’t lay the blame for my lack of love life at the foot of my decision to eschew shampoo. 

You might ask, how much have I saved by not buying into the shampoo fantasy? Well, a quick look at Woolies’ website suggests a bottle of shampoo can cost anywhere from $1.95 to $27.99. Let’s pick a middle figure––$10. My understanding is that salon-bought shampoo can be even more expensive. Let’s also say a bottle lasts a month. That’s $120 a year in savings. I don’t remember what shampoo cost back in 1994, so let’s be naughty and say it cost $10 also. Certainly, the shampoo I was using before I stopped being so gullible cost me around that amount, it was very expensive salon-sold hair product. Even the word ‘product’ gives you a clue as to how the hair industry views hair cleaning.  

Nineteen ninety four is nearly forty years ago. Being totally disingenuous, forty years at $120 a year is nearly $5,000 dollars. I could have bought a cheap second-hand car for that. 

My hair doesn’t smell like a wet Labrador, in case you were wondering, and none of my friends are any the wiser as to my hair maintenance and cleaning regime. Even my current barber Antonio hasn’t commented or enquired, and trust me he is not shy in asking questions or giving his opinion! 

We humans have been living for many, many generations without the benefit of the personal care industry. We survived just fine. Would I commend my secret to others? Absolutely. Anything that loosens the grip the personal care industry has over us I am all for. I would argue that there is very little ‘care’ in personal care, and a heck of a lot of filler, desire and cynical marketing. 

Go on, try it for yourself.