The people who use this kind of shelter are personally very dirty. They rarely have any opportunity of changing their clothes. They have lost that zest for personal daintiness so conspicuous at Kennedy Court, where the poorest little prostitute will wash her rags at every opportunity. Clean hands are not the rule in these particular sections, and many of the women are perennially verminous, so far as their hair is concerned. The strange thing is that, no matter how infected, they will not have it cut. It is not a question of shame; it is not a desire to escape criticism, for they could quite easily cut their hair themselves, nor is there any occasion to seek an official. But cut their hair they will not and masses of unkempt locks are wound round the head, literally alive with insects.

It is, I think, a feeling that long hair is the last touch of feminine attraction that life has left them. Possibly they feel that a cropped head would unsex them. They never express irritation at their uncomfortable condition⁠—they regard it, very largely, as an act of God, and day after day carry their load of dirt and misery without the faintest hope of any relief.