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Tales from the 'life is like this' collection

SHAMPOOHOLIC

At last I am strong enough to admit I have a problem. I owe it to all who know me to come clean and divulge the shameful addiction that has plagued me over recent years. I can conceal it no longer.

My name is Frances, and I am a shampooholic. Ah, that's better, wasn't so bad. Finally out of the closet.

Like all '-aholics' in various stages of denial, I don't blame myself for my excesses, even though I have become a three bottles a week woman. I have been driven to this pitiful state by failure - not on my part of course, but on the failure of any known product to deliver me to instant hair heaven.

Ah, The Product! Can't escape the B5, the cocamides, the panthenol, and those ever present extracts of rare and precious tinctures which promise instant allure. Ever tried treacle or elephant dung? Where is the humble elixir which will guarantee to restore my old thatch to its pre-menopausal glory? Am I worth it?

Let me describe the typical morning of a shampooholic.

I creep into the local store and hide furtively in the hair care aisle. I have to be furtive - don't want to be spotted here again. I pick different bottles off the shelf and read the labels closely - perhaps this time I will find the perfect brew. A brew that will moisturise without greasiness, volumise without dryness, restore my greying curls and won't require that obligatory daily usage! I'm not that interested any more! Well, not that interested anyway.

I select a likely contender (the blurb on the fancy label promising the earth), and making sure the check-out assistant.s different from yesterday, pay for it quite nonchalantly. I scurry from the store, with the seductive promise of lustrous locks in my little plastic bag. This time, this time!

Back in the privacy of my bathroom, I survey the shampoo scene. There are currently four other types on display, as many as I can safely show without questions being asked. But I know there are more bottles, carefully secreted in other parts of the house - their locations chosen wisely - where other souls dare not go. The wardrobe, my underwear drawer and the dressing table box which hides a multitude of previous liquid mistakes.

I look at my expensive bubble bath bottle on the shelf. It doesn't contain any expensive bath stuff now. Months of shampoo faux pas have passed through its glass neck and today there is a rather pleasing contrast of green and pink shampoo waiting to be recycled in the tub. (Interestingly, the green stuff has settled on the bottom and the pink has stayed on top. From different manufacturers, they absolutely refuse to mix when shaken.)

With the old familiar sense of resignation I turn on the shower head, and taking hold of my latest find, snap open its plastic cap. I sniff the liquid inside, feel its texture and my heart sinks - it resembles another bygone disaster. But hell, my head is wet anyway and I squirt a little into my palms.

God help me, I'm about to have yet another fix.