Staff Reporter
In the heart of Harare, a new wave of crime has left women clutching not just their purses but their heads, literally.
Gone are the days when a simple stroll down the city’s bustling streets meant worrying about traffic or vendors.
Now, the danger comes from above. Wig-snatching, the latest criminal craze, has women terrified to step out with their prized human hairpieces, fearing that one yank could leave them in public, exposed bald and bewildered.
Meet Chido Macheka, one of the many women forced into hiding, not from the law but from the dreaded wig-snatching syndicates.
"I don’t leave my house without my trusty baseball cap anymore. You think I’m being dramatic? Try walking around with a US$300 Peruvian lace front glued to your scalp in this city. If you're not careful, it’ll be gone before you can say ‘Brazilian weave.’," said Macheka, flipping her head back and forth, scanning the street like a detective in a bad crime film.
Indeed, wig thieves have become the ninjas of Harare’s Central Business District. With the agility of acrobats and the precision of hairdressers, these criminals have perfected their craft.
In mere seconds, they can relieve a woman of her most precious hair accessory, turning the victim from ‘slaying queen’ to ‘bareheaded bewilderment’ in broad daylight.
One brave (or perhaps foolhardy) woman tried to resist.
"It was like something out of a wrestling match. I felt a tug, turned around, and there he was, grinning like he had just won the lottery. I wasn’t about to let him walk away with my hair, so I grabbed it back. I wish I hadn’t. We both fell, and I’m pretty sure my wig travelled farther than I did," she recalled, looking both outraged and mortified.
Meanwhile, over at Copacabana, the black market is booming. Hairpieces that once adorned the heads of Harare’s fashion-forward women are now being hawked like street food.
"You want Peruvian? US$5. Brazilian? Maybe US$10," whispered a child involved in the trade, sounding like an auctioneer at a discount beauty pageant.
The children, working under a hierarchy that could rival the Mafia, play their part as runners for the masterminds behind the wig-snatching syndicate.
"We don’t snatch. The big guys do that. We just sell them. It’s like... sharing is caring, you know?" one child said with a mischievous grin, as though transforming someone’s $300 investment into a $3 knock-off was all part of the economy.
Wig specialist Fortunate Chiwanza is not amused.
"Ladies, you need to lock it down. Installation belts, bobby pins, melting spray—anything to stop these thieves. Your wig should be more secure than a bank vault at this point," she advised, while simultaneously demonstrating a series of hair-protection techniques that resembled an emergency drill.
With the rise of wig snatching, a strange but serious crime wave, Harare’s women are learning to navigate the city with one hand on their head and another on their conscience.
If the thieves continue unchecked, it might not be long before the only safe place to flaunt that fabulous weave is behind locked doors, far from the reaches of the wig-grabbing ninjas that now stalk the streets.
