I’ll share many things with my partner. We share life, the usual stuff, sharing a bed, sharing raising a child, sharing chores (
unevenly), sharing the occasional breakdown when you just can’t take anymore of being an adult, sharing the burden of people constantly questioning our relationship status – ‘are you getting married?’, we share the eye rolls, the moans, the good, the bad and the ugly. I’m talking the real ugly, the shiting on the bed having a baby ugly. To be fair, I don’t remember doing it, so did it really happen?
I’ll even share my food – as long as it’s been pre-agreed, of course. He does abuse my generosity by swiping a can of Pepsi Max that’s been in the fridge ‘too long’. Two weeks is not too long, you punk. On more than one occasion, I’ve even given him the last hot wing, even though it was mine. I am just that much of a sweetheart. I share my whole life with this man, we share material possessions (although that limited edition Zelda Skyward sword I ‘gifted’ Dave is most certainly mine, in the unfortunate event of us breaking up), life, love, friends, family and our future (d’aw how sweet, eh).
Quite happily I share it all. Hooowever, there is one teenie tiny thing I won’t share. In fact it drives me up the fucking wall, I’m trying to get on board with it, really I am. But if he keeps using my fucking shampoo I am going to rip him a new one!
Listen, I’ll explain. My hair and I have a great relationship. I care for it more attentively that I do my child. I’ll let the toddler make her own way out the house, garden and to the car. That might make some people’s eyes widen in horror. I can see her the whole time (we are both going to the car, I should make that clear. I’m not watching her leave for work while I wave at the window with a tumbler of whisky in my hand). My parenting style is very, shall we say, independent, a little lax and a like too close to the risky bone.
My hair on the other hand, would never be exposed to such danger, nor do I take ‘auch she’ll be fine’ risks with it. I comfort and soothe my locks as if it were a vulnerable chick hatching from it’s egg. Gently caressing each strand in argan oil after drying it with a t-shirt – if you don’t do that you really should, no more static hair suctioning it’s self to my face for me. Blow drying, straightening, curling do occur. But at very low frequency as to preserve the health of my sweet, sweet hair baby. It took a lot of mental prepping to convince myself that a home hair dye could be done, I know the salon is much better for your hair, but that carry on gives me the fear. I haven’t had my hair cut in a hairdressers since April 2015. When split ends appear I whisper my secret love chant to calm them back together again. And I chop them off myself.
My hair is by no means a luscious, enviable, mane of beauty, no no. But it does feel like a dream to caress. It’s saft. So saft. And you know how I get it so saft, other than a fearful approach to anything touching my hair that has extreme heat or chemicals, I use ‘nice’ shampoo. Some might say I’m a shampoo snob. You can say that all you want, I’m too busy stroking myself to care (easy tiger, mind out the gutter).
These ‘nice’ shampoos come at a cost. I have tried pretty much every shampoo known to (wo)man. The cheap, the mid range, the high end, the coconut, the moroccan oil, the volume boosting, the dry end repair, the de-frizz, the tone reflecting, the colour protectors, the chemical free, the thickening, the moisturising, the henna that used to dye my parent’s bathroom (heh heh) and the shine enhancing shampoos. I’ve been round the block, more than once. I’ve tried and tested shampoos across the board and when I find one that meets my high, deep space way above the sky kinda high, standards then I’ll buy it again and again. It will become my staple, other shampoos will make an appearance, I’ll test them out, but the old trusty will always be in the shower background. Like a good friend that’s got your drunken back on a night out.
To make things that little bit more snobby, I won’t use a shampoo that contains sulfates. Sulfates infuriate my scalp. If I do use a nasty sulfate containing shampoo *shudders*, red welts and spots appear on my scalp and around my hair line, it’s not very appealing, certainly not when you go to the hairdressers and she comments that it looks sore yet still pulls her long manicured nails through my hair. So I’m limited to shampoos with no sulfates, but it has to lather my ever so lovely strands of brunette gold just right or I’ll be very, very upset.
My shampoo will cost me, usually £7-£15 a bottle, plus the same again for conditioner. Judge away, it’s my hair and if I want it wrapped in coconut oil, hydrating sulfate free foam of desire then that’s what I want. What I don’t want is my partner having coconut smelling fucking hair. Coconut is the conditioner so I can tell he’s been lathering in the shampoo first and felt the need to give himself a wee dollop of the good stuff to keep him smelling sweet. That shit’s £7 a bottle. As much as I willingly share my life with this man, so help me God if he keeps using my ‘good’ shampoo I’m going to wring his neck. Sometimes, he’s even got the gall, to take my hand, run it through his hair and say ‘feel how soft my hair is’. Aye I know how fucking soft it is, it’s ‘that’s my fucking shampoo’ soft.
Look, I don’t mind sharing some shampoos, there’s plenty of the straw creating shit in the bathroom drawer. Help yourself my friend. Lather up a good auld ‘anti-frizz’, hair snapping material, that has been festering in there for a year. Go for it, Christ, I’ll even buy you more. But get your grubby little fingers away from the good shit. I’ve got hair down to my mermaids, it needs the extra love and support. This guys got short hair, hair enough to stroke, but not hair enough that it warrants the need for a moisturising, coconut whaft producing conditioner! He can use the shite shampoo and no one would bat an eye, I’m surprised even he notices. But if I, the hair psycho, was to use the crap shampoo, well, I’m sure it would cause enough devastation to my hair (and ego) to be reported on the 6 o’clock news.
The thing that bothers me the most, is not so much that he uses it –
that’s a fucking lie – but maybe more that he uses it and finishes it. The absolute audacity! Here is where he will interject and say ‘that’s never happened’. Aye, aye it has pal. Along with my shower gel (I like the sexist bullshit lady smells), toothpaste (again, sulfates are my enemy so I’m high maintenance on that front too) and snacks. I know snacks are not widely considered as a bathroom product, but it’s a sensitive topic for me, all this using my stuff is bringing up painful snack related memories. Did I ever tell you about the time he ate my Cadburys snack pot? While I was pregnant? It will never be forgotten.
Who uses a person’s stuff, finishes it and, wait for it………put’s it back on the self. I’m no kiddin. Is there anything more rage inducing?! Imagine I drank his can of Irn Bru and put the empty can back in the fridge. Imagine the utter annoyance and grunts that would accompany his man hand picking up that affa light tin can from the fridge, filling his excited heart with sadness and let down. Imagine. Now imagine you’re in the shower about to wash your filthy hair and reach up to find an empty bottle of exquisite shampoo.
It really does my hair covered tits in. Just to clarify, I don’t have hairy tits (well, within reason). The shoe would be on the other foot if I started cracking into his shaving foam, wouldn’t it. Or his razors. Could you imagine? He goes to trim the beard and woooah no razor! Do you think he would just quietly pick up one of the shite, old, one blade, skin ripping bad boys? Not a chance. There would be man huffs and puffs. Slamming of bathrooms drawers. Grumbles of sweary words and ultimately a ‘did you use my razor’ confrontation. Obviously, this is allll hypothetical, never happened. I wouldn’t be so savage as to use another person’s personal hygiene belongings – FYI, I can highly recommend the Clarin’s facewash for men, skin as saft as my hair.
I have my limits. I’ll give that man anything, I’ll even give him 0.5 seconds of pretend listening face when he’s banging on about his football team. I’ll share my entire being with him, but bloody hell, if he keeps using my shampoo you are going to see a blog post titled ‘ why shampoo is bad for your partner’s health’ real soon.