Marley

I loathe earrings. I went out of my way to get six piercings that now sit idly like freckles. Under the weight of a look from my mother, I may cave and wear studs but that's it. The idea of gleaming, wiggly metals hanging off the sides of my face is just wrong.

I can't be bothered with the decoration.

So you'll understand, then, why I chopped half my hair pre-Liberia and the other half mid-venture. On a practical level, I know myself: I am irritable and twelve months of sweaty strands gingerly cupping my neck was not, at any point, an option. On the vanity front, however, I had no intention of dating (...) and wanted to see if I could still look at myself in the mirror unadorned.

As it turns out, I can. Cool. Experiment over. I'll be growing out my "Jewfro" until 2014. (For the record, my great-grandpa's last name was Kaulmann; "Jewfro" applies.)

My haircut was never supposed to be a discussion piece but I came to the wrong damn country to go unnoticed.

On Saturday, I made my first trek to Exodus, a hotspot for the locals. The place has good music. I like that. But you've got to be in the right mood: you've got to be cool with some guy's sweaty hand gingerly cupping one of your buns. It's like New York with cheap beer.

But I digress.

In 90 minutes at Exodus, I had two complete strangers (one male, one female) come up behind me and grab a handful of my hair. And hold onto it. Before starting a conversation with me. I can't even convey the depth of the violation that is having a stranger -- one who is not shampooing you -- grip your skull. I have no words. In Liberia, though, hair is more or less community property.

And with good reason.

Almost no women go into public with their own hair. Hair is bought. (The best lit shop on Airfield Road looks like American Apparel but is actually a wig vendor.) Wigs are socially acceptable -- no, socially prescribed -- in the capital and elsewhere. Women actually sporting their own thick hair fall into three categories:

• Women whose household budgets don't allow for things like wigs;

• Dreadlock rastas quietly growing in numbers, influenced by Jamaica and Sierra Leone; and 

• Neo-hippie repatriates who were born and/or grew up in the States. (Hi!)

A wig is an important status symbol for the upwardly mobile. The hair pieces in question, though, are not even a little bit natural looking: these are flowing, Harlequin novel tresses. And because they're expensive and malodorous when wet, you'll see women drenched in rain capped with plastic bags. When they aren't busy keeping the hair dry, women are seen slapping their hot, itchy scalps through layers of wig. There are few things stranger than a composed bank teller or supermarket cashier suddenly beating the crown of her head (repeatedly and without explanation).

I will stick with my fro, thanks. But I may take to wearing a hat.