I ran out of shampoo last week. No big deal, I thought, I'll just run down to the supermarket and grab another bottle. Unfortunately, the trickster gods of consumerism had something else in mind.

There must have been fifty different varieties on display, arrayed across both sides of the aisle. And like most cosmetics, they were all marketed to those people convinced there is something desperately wrong with them that can only be solved through the application of some tincture of stone-fruit pulp, rare herbs and technobabble.

I'm happy to say that my hair doesn't feature amongst my physical insecurities. The only problem that springs to mind is that I think it's about time I got it cut, and my girlfriend doesn't.

My hair is not dry, damaged, chemically treated or coloured. Thanks to my mother's DNA it doesn't seem in any danger of falling out. I do not habitually flick my head around like those poor semi-tourettes-sufferers in the commercials. I am not looking to add vitality, body, shine or bounce. In an ideal world, after I washed my hair, it would simply be cleaner.

Now where's my shampoo?

I can only imagine that of all the dozens of brands and varieties of shampoo my local supermarket orders, there's one that is packaged in a plain, non-pastel-coloured bottle and labeled only "Shampoo. For normal hair."

And whenever they get a shipment in, it sells out in five minutes.