Head & Shoulders did the trick for my crowning glory
One of my Christmas presents was a book by a woman who made wigs for West End shows.
It’s full of amazing backstage gossip as well as fascinating wiggy facts.
Early in her career, the author was an assistant at Madame Tussaud’s. One of her jobs was to climb into the display in the now defunct Chamber of Horrors to dust and adjust the wigs of such charming personalities as Dr Crippen and the Kray brothers.
I was engrossed in that chapter on Boxing Day when a weird thing happened. I glanced up and on the television was a documentary about Madame Tussaud’s!
At that very moment they brought out the head of Ronnie Kray, rescued from storage, from which they were moulding a vinyl mask.
This was to be worn by a live actor to scare the punters in the revamped Chamber. Goosebumps or what?
Touring with Natural Theatre’s Scarlatti shows, which spoofed the music and fashion of the baroque period, I sported a notorious wig.
All elaborate ringlets and curls, it was one of the cheapest on the market as the show was only meant to run for a few weeks around the tercentenary of Bach, Handel and the other one, Scarlatti. I played the other one.
The show was a huge hit and, over 20 years in several formats, it was performed around 1,400 times and was seen by around a million people. My wig became an essential part of my characterisation.
But it being so cheap, I didn’t dare wash it, in case all the curls fell out.
Over the years it tended to flatten, so I bought a second and pinned it on top. And a third. With a bit of back combing and a generous application of hairspray, it remained the very epitome of baroque bouffant. And then, disaster: the product was discontinued.
With big tours stretching ahead, there was no way my crowning glory was going under a tap!
With dozens of one-night stands throughout Europe, my sweaty appendage was shoved into a trunk straight after the show, to reappear next day in the dressing room, dank and moist. And smelly.
I can’t tell you how much Febreze I got through. If we were expecting dignitaries (a liberal sprinkling of British ambassadors and even the president of Austria), our redoubtable agent, who knew my appearances always included a foray into the auditorium, would appear at the stage door and waft my cheesy headpiece with lashings of Chanel No5.
At £150 a bottle, this was very generous of her, but she was making a fortune from the show, so hey!
When I retired, I stole my rancid tonsurial accessory, which after all had been an important part of my life, and indeed had helped me buy my first apartment.
I couldn’t bear the pong any longer, so under the shower it went, doused with half a bottle of Head & Shoulders. After a quick whizz in my salad spinner, it emerged fresh, shiny and all ringlets in place.
You can’t beat cheap nylon. It’s indestructible.