Wigged-Out

A hair-raising tale from Clubland

I just flew in from Danceteria and boy is my hair tired. -An old joke

When I was a little child in the sixties," Ellen Kinnally said, "I loved them. They were all I ever wanted for my birthday or Christmas. My godfather was Leon Buchheit, one of the foremost wigmakers in the sixties. I used to go to his shop and watch -him work on wigs for Jackie Kennedy and Faye Dunaway."

Ellen sat this evening sipping tea and doodling on a notepad in the kitchen of the Manhattan apartment she shares with her English bo yfriend, Nick Egan. Her light-brown, God-given hair was pulled back loosely in a ponytail. "He would never let me have a wig," she said without a trace of resentment, "but when I was four he gave me a wig case and I still use it on my jobs."

Ellen, now twenty-four, is a veteran of the London and New York club scenes and has been wearing wigs ever since she got permission. She works as a stylist these days, whipping up hair and makeup for stars and models in magazines (Interview, Details), videos (Malcolm McLaren's "Duck for the Oyster"), and fashion shows. At night, she concentrates on herself. She's an exemplar in the wiggy world of nightclub fashion.

It's not a real world out there, and nobody pretends it is. It's a world of kids who have grown up watching television reruns and reading comics. While their parents want to emulate the Reagans, they want to be the Jetsons or the Flintstones. Sometimes, all it takes is a wig. Hardly a night goes by that you don't find yourself brushing the stray Dynel strands from your jacket.

Ellen and I found ourselves talking about some of the wiggier denizens of the scene. Andy Warhol, of course. Stephen Sprouse, who puts his models in replicas of his own hair. Photographer Steven Meisel, who wears a replica of his own hair. Model Teri Toye, whose hair only looks like a wig, which is just as valid, if not more so. Personality Sally Randall, who gets attention when she's not wigged. Cher. Tina Turner. Students. Bartenders. Coat-check girls. Everybody. You?

"People shouldn't go out to buy a wig just because everyone's wearing wigs, though," Ellen advised. "You have to want to look a certain way. You have to have a preconceived image, then go for the wig. Like maybe you really want to look like Brigitte Bardot, which is my new image for this week.

"I'm a person of many moods," she said. "Most of my moods come right after I've seen a movie. If I've just seen a romantic movie, I might feel like wearing a long, Ophelia-like wig. If I've watched The Avengers on TV, I might want an Emma Peel wig." Ellen looked over at an imported-beer bottle next to the sink. "For example, I think I'd like to look like the St. Pauli Girl next," she said. She wasn't completely serious. I hope. Although, a few nights before she had looked like Rapunzel, surely the patron saint of wig wearers.

"Some people wear those horrible seventies droopy wigs. It's funny. I respect that. Other people buy those prestyled as-seen-on-Macjonna, Chinese-cut wigs that hang a certain way and everyone's wearing and you've seen on mannequins in the stores. They're just taking someone else's design and putting it on their heads. They might as well have their hair cut at Sassoon. I don't respect that."

Other than to re-create reality— which is not the point—Ellen listed some more useful uses for wigs, like camouflage or disguise, warmth, or to see if that guy notices you as a blonde. In a sexual setting, I suggested, it's also one more thing to take off. "Maybe," Ellen said, "but do you know what your real hair looks like under a wig?"

Ellen took me into her bedroom, dumped the contents of her godfather's wig case onto the bed. It looked like a litter of dead puppies. There were supposed to be thirty-five wigs, but she always has "a few out on loan." She chose one of the silky blond puppies, stretched it onto my head, smoothed and bent it into submission, and led me to a mirror. It looked hideous, grotesque—and positively trendy.

"You have to keep a sense of humor about wigs," she said, "because at any moment you could end up like Helen Lawson in Valley of the Dolls."

Stephen Saban