And now for something completely frivolous (a hairy interlude)

I’ve noticed that very few Swazi men have facial hair, but hordes of expat white men do. It is very odd.

I have a few working theories on this.

Self-selection for Africa

My first theory is that most white men who feel the call of Africa have a secret longing to be bearded. Heading bush, they see it as the perfect excuse to get hairy. Freed from the shackles of their clean shaven compatriots, they put aside the razor and take up the trimmer.

Hot water blues - Environmentalism/Economisation

My second theory is that it probably gets a bit rough shaving with cold water. Yes, we’ve got hot water here, but the geyser has to be turned on manually. Sure, you can just leave it on all the time, but when the switch for on and off is right next to the panel telling you how many emalangeni that hot water is costing you (and the environment), you tend to just keep the geyser off except for the hour prior to having a bath or shower. So maybe the men get tired of one too many cold water cuts or abrasions and decide, “Blast it, if I can’t grow a beard in Africa when can I?”

Confirmation of gender – XY please

My third theory is a (totally scientific) extrapolation and generalisation from the experience of one young male expat. Based in rural Lesotho for two years, he first grew a beard because, he said, when he was clean-shaven the locals struggled to tell if he was male or female.

He is near six feet, has short hair and swears he never wore dresses, but nonetheless, he received a fair degree of male attention, several indecent propositions and one proposal of marriage.

Dispositionally inclined to welcome male attention, he was nevertheless taken aback at the gender assumption on which it rested.

My extrapolation from this is that perhaps the white men become aware they're considered girly, so they grow a beard not so much to denote masculinity as to enhance it.

(And pretty young men planning visits to rural Lesotho: be forewarned.)

Microbraids – just say no

A final note on hair. I got my hair microbraided last Friday. It was foolish, I know – along with the curiosity, and some vague aspiration of looking like Cleopatra, I had a hopeful notion that it would be an excellent thing not to have to wash my hair for a few weeks. Sitting in a luke-warm bathtub at 6.30am on a chill winter’s morning pouring pots of rapidly cooling water over your head is not an enjoyable experience.

There are no pictures. It will never be repeated. When the hairdresser started, a lot of Swazi women were happily telling me how lovely it would look. When the hairdresser finished, and my scrawny white skull was bared for all to see, and my long brunette locks were locked up into shrunken tendrils of hair … Well, a gogo walked into the salon, stopped in her tracks when she saw me and said “Shame!”

I was going straight on from the hairdresser’s to meet people heading for Bushfire concert that night, so I decided I would leave the braids in till I got home late that night and could take a photo for posterity’s sake.

Walking 30 mins to the meeting place, I will say, the best thing that microbraids had going for them was their splendid deterrent effect. For context, I’m a young white woman in Mbabane, and I tend to walk around a lot by myself. I am both exotic and accessible. On average, I will have some kind of male approach every 10 metres, ranging from the politely optimistic to the offensive and poorly expressed (“Baby will you squeezer me tonight?” is a direct quote). With microbraids, over the course of my 30 minute walk I was only approached three times. Extraordinary!

It was quite nice to have a respite! So I swear it wasn’t just vanity that prompted me to release my hair within three hours.

You see, microbraids are a health issue.

I’d never realised before how much warmth is trapped by my hair. It’s a hat and scarf all in one. That night was freezing cold, and I was dangerously underdressed for an outdoor night-time concert (I ignorantly dressed for the heat of a moshpit in a thin dress, leggings and sandals, and my toes were small cubicles of ice by the time I got home…). If I hadn’t returned my hair to its usual insulating state, I maintain I would have been at serious risk of hypothermia.

… And perhaps a tiny bit of vanity. It is sad to see yourself in a mirror and wince.

Let it be known as a universal law of nature: white girls can’t braid.