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they’re antimilitarists, possibly conscientious objectors, or Jehovah’s Witnesses – that’s all we need! It doesn’t bode well. And you know what happened in France, Father Herménégilde, not so long ago: students in the streets, strikes, demonstrations, riots, barricades, revolution! We’ll have to keep an eye on these gentlemen, monitor what they say in class, so they don’t spread subversion and atheism in our pupils’ minds.”
    “There isn’t much we can do about it,” replied Father Herménégilde. “If they’re sending us these Frenchmen, it’s a matter of politics and diplomacy. Surely our small country needs to build broader relationships. After all, there’s more than just Belgium …”
    The first two Frenchmen were delivered to the lycée by a car from their embassy, which reassured Mother Superior to a certain extent. Naturally, they wore no ties, and one of them, rather worryingly, had a guitar among his belongings, but they seemed reasonably polite, shy, and slightly dazed to find themselves suddenly transplanted to these remote mountains in a country they’d never heard of in farthest Africa. “Monsieur Lapointe insisted on coming here under his own steam,” explained the Cultural Attaché a little vaguely. “He should arrive before nightfall or tomorrow at the very latest.”
    The third Frenchman did indeed arrive the next morning, in the back of a Toyota. He kindly helped the women with babies on their backs to climb out. The lycée guards pulled the ever-vocal gates wide open for him, as if greeting an official vehicle. It was the second lesson of the day, and the girls, or at least those sitting closest to the windows, saw a very tall, very skinny young man striding across the courtyard, dressed in jeans that had lost all their color, and a short-sleeved khaki shirt that hung open across his hairy chest. His only luggage was a backpack decorated with numerous patches. But what really startled those girls who were lucky enough to see him, making them squeal with surprise, causing all the others to jump up and rush to the windows, in spite of their teachers’ protests, was his hair, his thick, blond, wavy hair, which hung halfway down his back.
    “Well, it must be a girl,” Godelive said.
    “Not at all, you saw very well from the front, it’s a man,” argued Frida.
    “He’s a hippie,” Immaculée explained. “The young people in America are all like that now.”
    Sister Gertrude ran to warn Mother Superior:
    “ Mon Dieu ! The Frenchman, Mother, he’s here!”
    “Well, what about the Frenchman? Show him in.”
    “Oh, mon Dieu , Reverend Mother! The Frenchman, wait till you see him!”
    Mother Superior had the greatest difficulty suppressing a gasp of horror when the new teacher entered her study.
    “I’m Olivier Lapointe,” said the Frenchman nonchalantly. “I’ve been posted here. This is the lycée of Our Lady of the Nile, right?”
    Stunned with indignation, Mother Superior was lost for words, and in order to gather her senses, she turned to Sister Gertrude:
    “Sister Gertrude, please show Monsieur to his lodgings.”
    Kanyarushatsi (Mr. Hair), as the girls called him, remained closeted in his bungalow for two weeks. They told him they were putting the finishing touches to the timetable. Nearly every day, a delegation sent by Mother Superior – Father Herménégilde, Sister Gertrude, Sister Lydwine, the Belgian teachers, the two other Frenchmen, and, finally, Mother Superior herself – attempted, on the pretext of a courtesy visit, to persuade him to get a haircut. Mr. Hair was prepared to cede on every other issue: wear a shirt and tie, and decent trousers. But when it came to his long hair, he was quite intransigent. They suggested he cut it to at least shoulder length. He refused point-blank. Never would he let a single hair be touched. His long locks were his one pride, the masterpiece of his youth, his whole reason for living, and he wouldn’t give it up