Strong Like a Gentleman, Soft Like a Lady: My First 48 Hours in Nepal

Somehow, in just 48 hours, I’ve been reminded that I am both very masculine and so grateful to be a woman.

I’ve just made my way back to Kathmandu from the small mountain village of Nagarkot—a place where the air is crisp, the hills are brutal, and apparently, my presence is… confusing?

“You Are a Strong Gentleman!”

Yesterday, while struggling up a 45-degree hill in search of an ATM, I got chatting with a Nepalese guy. The conversation started as it always does:

• “Where are you from?”
• “How long will you stay in Nepal?”

We talked about his son, who’s studying in Birmingham, when—out of nowhere—he hit me with:

“Hey, you know you are a strong gentleman!”

I burst out laughing, assuming he had mistaken my gender. (Wouldn’t be the first time.) But no—he quickly corrected himself with many apologies:

“No, no! You are not a man, you are a woman… but you are strong like a gentleman!”

He went on to compliment the way I walk, how I look like I can fight (I do box regularly), and how I just seem strong. And honestly? I loved it.

It’s not every day you get told you exude undeniable strength by a total stranger.

We exchanged pleasantries, wished each other a great day, and I walked off grinning ear to ear.

The Haircut Mission

Fast forward to today in Kathmandu, and I had another unexpected interaction.

A man approached me, and I braced myself for the usual:

• “Do you smoke hashish?”
• “Do you want to see my shop?”

Instead, he pointed at the hair salon I was aiming for and shook his head.

“That one is bad. They will scam you. Come, I take you to a better one.”

Now, my cynical self assumed that this would somehow lead to his shop, his sister’s business, or some other form of commission. But I was intrigued, so I followed.

As we walked, he turned to me and casually asked:

“Do you need boy haircut or woman’s?”

I laughed again, assuming he was questioning my gender. But no—he was genuinely curious which style I preferred, as a “strong man,” as he put it.

“Woman’s haircut, please.”

He nodded seriously and marched through Kathmandu at full speed with me struggling to keep up. Eventually, we ended up at Kathmandu Mall, climbing up to the 4th floor, where he delivered me to… a totally normal hair salon.

He negotiated 500 rupees for a wash and cut (I could tell the ladies in the salon were not thrilled by his bargaining skills), and then—just like that—he was gone.

No demands for money, no hidden agenda, no “please visit my shop later.” Just a random act of kindness.

A Rare Moment of Pampering

The young stylist, Sauru (I think that’s how it’s spelled), sat me down and got to work.

Now, let me be clear—I haven’t been to an actual salon in about 17 years. I don’t care how my hair is cut, as long as it can be tied up and hidden under one of my many dirty bandanas.

But here I was, alone in Kathmandu, letting someone properly wash and cut my hair for the first time in years.

And honestly? I kinda loved it.

As soon as that cool water touched my scalp, something in me shifted.

“Oh no… I’m being pampered… and it feels nice???”

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let myself enjoy it.

How demure of me. Or… whatever it is the girlies say.

Salon Talk & Cultural Expectations

Of course, the classic hairdresser small talk kicked in.

• “Where are you from?”
• “How long will you stay in Nepal?”

Sauru told me she likes to practice her English, so we chatted about our families, our jobs, and how exhausting life can be.

Then came the inevitable topic: men and marriage.

(Anyone who’s spent time in South Asia knows how quickly this topic comes up. Usually, it starts with: “Do you have a husband?”)

This time, I was the one asking.

When I asked if she was married, she simply said: “No.”

And for some reason, I responded with:

“Why?”

Why?

Why did I ask that?

It always bugged me when women from other cultures seemed confused as to why I wasn’t married. Yet here I was, doing the same thing. Maybe I was just trying to relate. Maybe I was conforming to what I assumed she and the other ladies in the salon would expect.

Sauru laughed. “I don’t want a Nepalese husband!”

And honestly? I get it. Men are the worst, right? (Coming from a “strong gentleman” lesbian from the UK.)

We both laughed.

A Missed Opportunity for Honesty

Then, when she asked if I was married, I said yes—but I didn’t mention that I’m married to a woman.

Normally, I do.

Maybe it was because she literally had my hair in her hands. Maybe I just didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Maybe I didn’t want to risk an awkward moment in a place where I was already the odd one out.

Who knows?

But I wish I had corrected her when she asked:

“Where is your husband?”

Strong Like a Gentleman, Soft Like a Woman

I left that salon feeling different.

One moment, I was walking through the streets of Kathmandu, being told I was “a strong gentleman.”

The next, I was leaning back in a salon chair, chatting about life and marriage like any other woman.

Both experiences felt right.

In a world where gender identity is an ongoing conversation, I feel lucky to live in a space where I can embrace both sides of myself.

Some might find that stranger’s comment offensive or politically incorrect. But for me? It was just a compliment.

I know this isn’t the case for everyone. I know that many people struggle with their identity and how the world sees them.

But at 32 years old, I’m sure of who I am. I know when to be respectful of different cultures, and most importantly—

I fucking love being a woman.

Wishing the Best for Sauru

I left that salon wishing Sauru all the best.

She dreams of moving to Dubai, where she can make better money (her current salary is 12,500 Nepalese Rupees, by the way—information she happily volunteered).

I hope she makes it.

I hope she takes my advice to stay single for as long as she wants and enjoys her freedom.

And I hope that, just like me, she gets to experience both strength and softness in this lifetime.

Note: The haircut was 500 rupees (approx. $3.50) I gave her 1000 rupees, not because I’m a saint, but because I’m not an arsehole. A wash, trim and great conversation for $7, who wouldn’t?