Every time my history teacher called me "Haystacks" I would blush while trying to flatten my barnet with my palms. Even today, although people no longer call me names, I notice them trying not to stare at my frizzy bonce.

Recently, I decided to take extreme action, inspired by the two people whose gleaming locks I admire the most. One is my former boss who hasn't washed her hair in 10 years, and the other lives in rural Tanzania and can only wash her hair once a week.

Having braced myself for full-on hair grease-out, I was surprised to find that the first few days passed with no hiccups. I brushed my hair each night to draw the natural oils away from the roots, and was pleased to see a smoother, sleeker me in the mirror. I didn't have to make time in my schedule to wash it either, which was a bonus.

By day five, though, my hair was oily, I had dandruff, and a job interview presented a hurdle. Would my potential boss notice and think me too grubby for the position? I survived the occasion with tons of Kirby grips and a distractingly bright orange top. Thankfully, the dandruff was short-lived but, despite this, I felt increasingly low.

Day seven was the darkest of all. A dinner in formal attire didn't seem to go with what was now obviously lank hair, so I buckled and applied organic conditioner in an attempt to reduce the lard level. It felt odd adding grease to grease (my ex-boss with the glossy mane assures me weekly conditioner is key), but my hair looked passable after a blow dry, and I was rewarded with my first hair compliment - ever.

"Very chic," my friend Neil said. "A bit like Betty Boo."

A month has now passed, and I am a dirty-hair convert. Yes, there have been days such as yesterday when my scalp was itchy and my hair had a slightly fusty smell up really close, but it feels healthier, more controllable and, best of all, looks nothing like a haystack.