FALSE HAIR.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XI, Issue 111, 18 April 1876, Page 4

FALSE HAIR.

There was a sale of hair in the city the other day, and after ray visit it set me dreaming — a dream that might have been the vision of waking moments from its resemblance to tbe matter-of-fact realities of e very-day life. . There arose the thought, "From whence comes all this false hair ? " and I saw — The cold, cheerlesß, whitewashed wards, passages, and cells of a prison, with hard-faced, stern-looking female warders ; and, clad in grey serge, a young, handsome, anxious-faced woman led out into a room, g p zing eager-eyed, from faoe to face, with eyes that resembled those of the hunted, as she strove half in fear to make out why she was brought there. Imprisoned for her crime ; but what was this new phase ? "Sit down." Yes, she would sit down, and that quietly. But what for ? How the keen eyes asked tbat question of face after face, that looked stolidly on, as this fallen child of Eve Bat wondering what was to follow. What ! a comb ? Scissors ? Can you imagine the horror that flashed through her mind ? You, fair one, who will let those yellow locks of yours fall rippling over your shoulders tonight, and then hold them back, or draw them athwart your cheek, Bhake them like a veil over your bonny face, and peer in the glass from behind the tangled network, with a half-smile on your lip, as in your woman's pride you glory in your greatest ornament — can you imagine her shudder, and her start from her chair as she appeals to the matron ? " No — uo — no I Please not that ! Til work, and be careful and olern, and do as you wish ; but please, please, oh, please, don't cut my hair 1 " Tears — prayers — of no avail, and hands press her back into her chair, resisting feebly, and ceasing not to beg that she may be spared the indignity. But a comb loosened, two or three pins drawn out, and down tumble the heavy masses around, as if to hide the convulsed face of the sobbing woman — yes, a woman still, though in some way a sinner. Snip, a sharp, grating cut of the keen scissors, and a look falls snakelike and writhing to the ground, as a sob, almost a cry, bursts from tbe woman's heart. Snip again, and another lock falls, and the woman struggles imploringly to the matron's feet, sobbing, crying, begging tbat ber hair may be spared, in the most heart-rending tones to deaf ears ; then infuriated, half-maddened, she fights desperately, till overpowered and forced back into tbe chair ; when, held there, the operation is completed —the long haavy masses are shorn off — and disfigured, raving, in some cases cursing and blaspheming horribly, the female convict is dragged back to her cell a worse woman than she came out; while the warder gathers up the rich tresses. One source from which your false hair comes, fair daughters of England ! Wear, then, thy locks, and be happy 1 The same scene enacted at our lunatic asylums, perhaps without the violence ; — though the rays of reason left must be few indeed when woman parts with her hair without a struggle. You may walk through the long wards of Hanwell and Colney Hatch, and see crouching figures sitting iu the darkest corners tbey can find, and their faces turned to tbe wall as you pass ; and sigh for their desolate lot and shiver, too, as you look at the closely-cropped head, and think of the wondrous change made by the cruel, soi&sors-armed . hand. Plenty of noble " leeches " of hair from such sources as this — long tresses that shall rest henceforth upon brows that are not fevered, over brains that throb not, nor beat, nor seem obscured and dull. Shall it be brought to light ? Well, why not ? Since fashion refuses not to wear it, why should its source be forbidden? There is the demand, aud there is tbe supply ; and since hair is almost indestructible, and fetches its price, what wonder that in country, green-knolled, yew-grown yards, where your grey, wizened, parchment-skinned old sinner descends down black openings 6ft. by 3ft. ; — what wonder tbat when he comes upon places that bavo not been opened for many years, he chips off fragments of rotten elm boards, aod shovels together bones, laying them aside under a few shovelfuls of earth, till the sad ceremony has been performed, and he can throw them in ouce more ; — what wonder tbat he finds something that shall bring him the money for his tobacco, and that glass of alo he enjoys at the King's Head ? Have we not had hair from mummy tombs in far-off Egypt ? Why not, then, from our own country churchyards ? A source tbis, fair ladies, for your flowing locks I And what does it matter that they were so late* upon a grinning, sightless skull ? Nothing 1 Doubt if you will, but you may prove it by going to the dealers ; though they will not perhaps tell you that the long hair with the bulb attached, proving that it has been pulled out "by the roots," whilst here and there fragments of dry scalp are attached-*— they will not perhaps tell you that all this is churchyard hair ! Well, what does it matter ? What want the dead with their flowing locks? Cannot tho living wear them, and gallants admire and caress them again in tho innocency of their hearts? These must be the thoughts of tbe hard woman who comes to the fever-stricken housa

when all else shun it but those who love too well to be chased away by the deadliest disease that stalks tbis earth. But there are duties that these loving hands that have tended the smitten one so long aud well cannot perform; and now, that all is over, the hard, cool woman is busy '• laying out." Hush ! who knows what she does in the silence of that death chamber ? Who intrudes upon her duties ? No one; and when those who loved the passed-away come to kiss again the cold clay, will they raise the head to see that tbe long, fair locks have been untouched ? _^No; but advancing on tiptoe, softly press the farewell salute upon the marble brow, and turn tearblinded away. No; perchance these fair locks, be they those of mother, sister, or child, are not in that hardlined coffin — are not far beneath the sod, or in that damp vault; but glistening in the sunshine or gaslight — once more decorating the head of beauty, or hiding the traces that time has made upon some womanly brow. And what matters, maidens and women of England? What want the dead with their hair, the only part tbat shall not become food for the worms or turn to dust ? Poohl what matters? Let us be handsome, and seek from art the embelish ments it can give. Give us caustics that shall turn our hair of a golden rust color; caustics that shall bleach; artful combs bearing long, silken tresses; brilliantine gold dust, and dredgers. Let us be handsome and happy while life lasts, and what matters from whence comes the hair ? Heavy-eyeJ, sorrowful-locking, broad fronted peasant girls these, with their stiff white caps in their hands, waiting, sheep-like, the shearing of the dealer, who gives them for their locks what ? Money? Oh, no; some common article of dresB — a handkerchief gaily colored, perhaps. A few sharp clips and he haß it all off close, and, aB he studies length of hair, he troubles himself but little concerning the cropped appearance of those female Absaloms, who allow themselves from time to lime to be polled. A few dexterous clips, the " leech" of hair bound up and cast into a basket, and the stiff white cap returned to its place; while the hair merchant goes on rejoicing, the dull, heavy-eyed boor, whose coarse hand weiShs and sorts the flowing locks, while' he bargains, and chaffers, and depreciates till matters are satisfactorily adjusted. But then, some people must always be poor; and what matters about such an ornament as long flowing locks to a peasant girl, when her betters demand them for their own ndommen f , and offer mon9y in exchange? Wbilp, if the money is absorbed by the dealers, why, the peasant girls ought to make better bargains. Shall I go on — shall I bring up a few of the other sources that I saw ; sources from which our fair ones derive their flowing locks — tbair chignons ? Better not; for this should suffice, and, like myself, they may think of my dretm, and muse upon it, feeling, pel hupp, content in mind that gregarines are rarities that cleanliness will banish; but still, perchance, wondering what was the early fortuue of the lock they purchased so quietly, and keep bo secretly, even though it is plain to see tbat its growth was upon more than one head, and that tho shades match badly witb the real growth. And don't we wear wigs ? Well, yes; some of us who dread to look old, feeling ashamed of the crown of glory, or the benevolent bare crown. We have our weak ones, tis true, and in plenty; but surely the ladies will allow that we do not carry caprice to Buch a pitch. Fashion your hair, oh fair ones, as ye list; for, however ugly the mode, there is something in the face that will redeem it to a certain extenf. Wear chignons, porters' knots, rolls, Baucissons, pile, plait, curl, frizz what you will; but give us the genuine article, and quash the counterfeit.