A Hair-Do In Fiji

By “Amel”

THERE’S no hanky-panky about the hair-dressing style of a Fijian woman.

She never raves because her back hair won’t stay put. She never moans because those adorable baby curls, on which she spent such a lot of time, came out in the wash. She fears no competition from her sister, her friends, or her copper coloured mamma.

Nobody tells her that her latest “hair do” makes her look a fright. She never has a latest hair-do. Year in, year out, her style never alters.

The ever-milling fashions of her white sisters leave her unmoved and slightly contemptuous. Her coiffure has been the same—a dense, fuzzy, wiry mop, neatly trimmed all over—for as long as she can remember.

Strangely enough, her hair is fine and silky when she is a baby. From then on, however, repeated clipping, goodly doses of tropical sunshine and frequent mas saging with coconut oil, coarsen it beyond recognition.

During the clipping process, a small area at the back of her head is left to grow. When she reaches young woman hood, this longer hair is made into a bunch of tiny plaits, which are unravelled and replaited at intervals in her life, until, on attaining marriageable age, she can dangle them over her shoulder. She is then considered a most eligible damsel.

Very soon, she wins a husband for her self, whereupon the plaits—symbol of single blessedness —are cut off.

After marriage, her hair still interests her —when she thinks of it—and once a week, she runs a ten-pronged wooden comb through it, while her girl-friends gather round to help her trap the live stock. Yes, indeed —and why not? What is a flea or so between friends?

No special night is shampoo night for a Fijian belle. As a matter of fact, she requires at least a whole day to do the job properly.

First, she must decide what “type” she will be —a ticklish problem, let me tell you. She has the choice of three shades.

She can buy some purple marking-dye at the local Chinese store, dip her head in a strong solution of it and cause a mild sensation in church on Sunday morning. She can be a red-head —Fijians are very fond of red hair —but it would mean a lot of fuss, burning lime and what not. And she really cannot afford threepence-worth of marking-dye for the purple hair-do.

So, on third thoughts, she decides to retain her own black locks, and hopes that her lord and master will love her just the same.

When she starts to shampoo her crowning glory, she dons the absolute minimum of old clothes, and finds plenty of elbow-room somewhere in the back yard. Then she empties the contents of the ash-bin into a dish of water, mixes it to a smooth paste, and pours it over her head.

Not content with having this nausea ting mess trickling down her neck, she strolls along to the nearest mangrove swamp and, scooping up a billyful of the blackest, smelliest, slimiest mud she can find, she smears it on top of the first mixture!

The resultant effect is guaranteed to keep the most loving husband at bay!

But, lo! When she has washed, combed, trimmed and oiled her raven tresses, a more elegant coiffure could not be imagined. Her white sisters may eye it curiously, and secretly pity its wearer for her lack of hair-style variety, but the

coiffure of a Fijian belle has three ex cellent virtues. It protects her from the hot sun; its thickness breaks the fall of any stray coconuts that may come her way, and —best of all, perhaps—its up keep costs practically nothing!