Tupperhair? Welcome to the Party
Beth Frank, a 32-year-old executive assistant in the comedy department at ABC, was in the kitchen of her Fairfax district bungalow, making mojitos. A dozen or so of her closest girlfriends lounged in her living room, snacking on crudites, smoking Marlboro Lights and chatting about something unthinkable to most of them until tonight: wearing wigs.
Jennifer Morris, 30, a natural brunet, emerged from Frank’s home office in a short, tousled white wig and struck a pose. Her audience went into hysterics. She made a beeline for the bathroom mirror. “I feel like Carol Channing!” Morris, who is an actress, said, giggling. “I’d never wear it out. But it’s fun for the apartment. I’ve always wanted to know what I look like with short hair. And now I do.”
Welcome to the modern-day version of the Tupperware party. Instead of a suburban lady with her panoply of plastic storage boxes, there’s 29-year-old Kimberley Burton, who sells wigs at the Sunday flea market at Fairfax High School, and by appointment. On this Friday night, she brought hundreds of wigs, packed in half a dozen portable chests of drawers, for Frank’s guests to try. All made of synthetic hair, the wigs range in price from $99 to $399.
Burton grew up in the wig business. In the ‘70s, her mother, Linda Burton, owned a popular West Los Angeles wig shop called Hairum. In the mid-’80s, after a stint teaching tennis in Hawaii, Burton joined the business, selling wigs from carts in local malls.
“I always had a knack for it,” she said. Several years ago, Burton opened her own wig shop, Hair Dreams, in the Westside Pavilion, but closed it last year to focus on her growing house-call business and markets such as the one at Fairfax High, where she might sell a dozen wigs on a good day.
Frank, who has curly light-brown hair, had her own wig epiphany last March at the Fairfax High flea market. “I was waiting to pay for a piece of jewelry,” she said. “Next door, there was this girl putting hair on people. I thought, that’s so freaky. Then I wondered what I would look like.”
She tried on several styles before arriving at a sleek, dark-brown bob. “I looked like that movie character I always wanted to look like,” she said, someone who could emerge from a ride in a convertible “with the same hair I got in with.” Frank not only bought the wig on the spot but wore it that night to an Oscar party. “I felt really confident,” she said. “I was getting more attention from men. I’m not sure if that’s because the wig made me look better or because it let me be more sassy.”
Since that fateful day, Frank has purchased two more wigs from Burton. She has discovered, however, that, for the most part, she’s a one-wig woman. Not counting sleeping hours, she wears the wig about 90% of the time, she reckons, including to work. She decided to throw a wig party, she said, because “I want my friends to join me in the cult.”
While all of Frank’s girlfriends agree that her wig looks terrific, few are convinced that wigs are for them.
“I’ve tried on Beth’s wigs and they’re horrid on me,” said 28-year-old Caitlin Dowe-Sands, a public relations executive. “I looked like the fat cheerleader who no one wanted to play with.” Moments later, it is Dowe-Sands’ turn to transform herself. Burton slides a blond fall (a partial wig attached with a comb) into the natural blond’s crown.
“For a girl with thin hair,” said Dowe-Sands, “it’s like a dream.”
Burton was encouraging: “This can spice up your life. My husband never gets bored. When I was single, I used to confuse the hell out of the men.”
Dowe-Sands studied herself in the mirror. “I feel like ‘Bewitched,’ ” she said, blushing. She returned to the living room. The crowd cheered.
Heather Cunningham, a 26-year-old writer and executive assistant in the marketing department of ABC, was the next victim. She went into Frank’s office with long blond locks and emerged a redhead. “I feel like strawberry shortcake!” she screamed. “I’m Bon Jovi, with red hair.”
Burton was right behind her: “You’re on fire, baby,” she purred. “Sexy!” Burton abruptly stopped her catcalls to adjust Cunningham’s wig and tuck in a stray strand of hair.
Later, the subject of disclosure arose. “If I were at a party,” said 30-year-old director Amanda Michener, wearing the aforementioned Bon Jovi wig, “I’d feel like such a fraud.”
“Some guys are really turned on by it,” Frank countered, something she knows firsthand. But when, everyone wants to know, does she reveal?
“When you’re on the couch, talking and starting to kiss,” Frank offered, “I would say, ‘I have to tell you something.’ Of course the guy is thinking the worst. Then I say, ‘For the past couple of months, I’ve been wearing wigs. I’m not Hasidic or undergoing chemo.’ ” “Hopefully, you’re going to the bedroom anyway and no one cares what your hair looks like. . . . You know how we’re always complaining that men look at surfaces? This is a great way to get back at them.”
Her wig saves her precious time in the morning, said Frank, and it’s had another, almost paradoxical, effect. When she takes it off, “People are like, ‘That’s your real hair? It’s so cute.’ ”
As for the evening’s wig sales, though many women left with Burton’s brochure and business card, only Cunningham made a purchase--a $119 strawberry-blond fall. “I feel like a movie star,” she said, “like I should be walking onto Jay Leno. . . .. I’m going to be an addict. I feel a really strong habit coming on.”
