The sky yesterday was something special. Not a cloud in sight, glittering sunlight, not too hot, the city felt like a sleepy beach town while people cruised around in their cars, everyone feeling cheerful.

My taxi driver was as happy as can be. "Good morning, Madam," he called out as I climbed into his red cab. "How is the health? he cooed. "If you have good health, you have everything," he said brightly.

Racing along the lagoon-side, he became distracted from the road as he tried to catch something on the passenger seat next to him. He let go of the steering wheel while he tried to get a hold of whatever it was on the seat. Cracking a broad grin, he held up his find for me to see.

"A golden hair," he said, laughing and showing me one of my own hairs, come loose in the breeze of the open window. "I presume one of yours?"

Laying it in the compartment next to the gear stick he said,

"I will put it in an album," and chuckled, bright with the freshness of the day.

"But what name will I write next to it?" he asked, and laughed as I said he could put whatever name he liked.

We bantered too and fro, he told me about all the great things Cote d'Ivoire had on offer, wild animals, every fruit and vegetable you could imagine, and lovely beaches. He told me about his days as a room cleaner in a hotel in town, how he made friends with a Polish girl whose hair used to drop out a lot. He asked me if it was normal. I expect it's quite interesting to someone surrounded by African girls whose hair, presumably, doesn't fall out that much, or get long enough to be noticed when it does. He was really pleasant to talk to, and did not leer at me in the rearview mirror or say anything inappropriate. I gave him a good tip.

Over lunch, I told Pauline about my nice encounter with a friendly taxi man.

"He might have been trying to voodoo you," she said. "All he needs is one of your hairs, and your name."