The Tropics

A Top-Dressing In The Tropics

By “Amel.”

¥N Suva, the business of having one’s i hair attended to is a simple matter. For the male of the species, European, Indian and Japanese bar ber shops offer a varied choice to suit most tastes and pockets; and, if you cannot decide which to patronise, you simply “eenie, meenie, minie, mo” them!

For the female of the species, who naturally desires more twiddley-bits to her hair-dressing, there is an up to-date and well-appointed establish ment, where, in an atmosphere of coolness and peace, it is possible to be shampooed, bobbed, shingled, bingled, dyed, waved or curled. Such an en chanting, inviting array of possibilities to tempt the feminine mind! No won der so many of them fall for things they shouldn’t!

But, wait! The scene changes to a humble copra plantation, on an island a couple of hundred miles from Suva.

Delicately-scented hair-dressing em poriums are lamentably distant, and one’s hair grows at an alarming rate —due, no doubt, to the outdoor life and the “wide open spaces”. When it reaches an uncontrollable length, and mosquitoes and heat are driving one crazy, the following procedure is adopted.

One chooses a Sunday morning (this is the favourite time) when Father has himself comfortably established with spectacles and book. Then one approaches him somewhat diffidently, and says, in a half-bantering tone, “Oh—er —um—Dad ... I suppose you couldn’t spare half an hour or so, could you?”

Down goes the book, and one is treated to a very cold glare.

“What for, eh? Hrrrmph! Want your hair cut, do you? Oh, well, all right. Never saw such people . . . can’t leave a bloke alone for five minutes. Are you all ready? Got the clippers and scissors and comb, and something to tie round your neck?

“Come along, then. Sit here. And don’t slump like that . . . haven’t you got a spine?

“Now, how much do you want taken off? A goodish bit here, but not too much there? You women are too darn finicky. What a nuisance these ears are! Here, hold that one down while I trim around it. Hang the mos quitoes! There . . . that will do you.

It looks all right. For goodness sake clear out now, and don’t ask me to cut your hair again for another six months!”

One thanks Father—it really was good of him—and then hovers uncer tainly around the nearest mirror for half an hour, anxious to have a look, but without courage to take that first peep.

And now let’s have a look at a Fijian female getting her hair ready for a meke-meke.

When she decides to give her hair a

“doing”, she does the thing properly.

No half-pie measures for her. She dons her oldest sulu, and smears her head (and half her face) with a priming of wood-ashes mixed to the desired consistency with water. (This is to kill off some of the livestock!) When this nauseating mess has been on for several hours, giving the wearer a somewhat haggard appearance, she pours over it a delightful concoction of black dye and swamp mud . . . guaranteed to grow whiskers on a bil- Hard ball!!

After a decent period has elapsed, Milady deigns to wash her besmeared head. Then she dries it, combs it, trims it neatly, massages it with coconut oil, and, presto, she is ready to face the social whirl!

Dr. G. H. Vernon, who sold out his interests at Daru, in Western Papua last year, and moved to Round Hill, in Eastern Papua, where he proposed to grow kapok, has accepted a Gov ernment position as medical officer at Misima, and took up his residence at that busy mining centre in January, Dr. Vernon has not given up his plan tation at Round Hill, but he has abandoned the kapok plan and has turned the property over to rubber growing. He intends to remain in definitely at Misima, where he finds the work and associations very con genial. Incidentally, he has had a good deal of work to do since he arrived there, owing to recurrent epidemics of sickness among the native labourers at the mines.