Customs: Keeping the Hair Up

He has a reputation for being vain, fickle, unreliably charming and dependably indiscreet. Never too far from a mirror to lose sight of himself, he is a dude in his own parlor but usually a dud in anyone else’s. Nonetheless, there is hardly a woman in the world today who can get along without him. Let her husband vanish, her housekeeper quit, her children join the Peace Corps anc her best friend move away; so long as ner hairdresser doesn’t pull up roots, a woman feels secure.

Hairdressers have not always been so much in demand. Until the recent past, in fact, their clientele consisted mainly of women too famous to let their hair down, too old to put it up themselves, or too rich to have to. But with a beauty parlor installed in every new shopping center, women who had always done it themselves have been hustling off to let someone else do it for them.

Pomp & Circumstance. The local maestro may not be Mr. Kenneth (the man responsible for Jackie Kennedy’s bouffant), Alexandre of Paris (who whipped up the celebrated chignon that adorned Elizabeth Taylor at her last wedding), or London’s Vidal Sassoon (whose clients are expected to come in at least three times a week). But he is deft with a spray can, and a real wizard when it comes to teasing.

The creative maestros, of course, don’t just fuss around with combs and brushes. In their hands, the simplest hairdo is attended by pomp (goldplated shampoo basins, crystal chandeliers and reclining chairs) and circumstances (perfumed air, Muzak, and a cast of supporting players that includes one girl who does nothing but help customers with their zippers). They are whirlwind travelers who can comb out 250 New York debutantes one day, rinse an Italian princess the next, and pin a pony tail on a marquesa in Spain before nightfall (Alexandre’s itinerary took him around the world twice just in the month of October). Each is accompanied by a vast retinue of apprentice craftsmen and enough apparatus (hair dryers, electric curlers, rollers, sprays, creams, nets, wigs, wiglets, switches, and six varieties of scissors) to run up massive overweight charges. They do not lose money. Kenneth, for instance, charges $100 an hour or $500 a day for a house call. Alexandre gets $11 for just a wash and set, Michel Kazan $6 for snipping a lock.

Most women prefer, for simple economic reasons, to go to the salon. To be sure, an appointment at Mr. Kenneth’s may find Mr. Kenneth himself a continent away, ministering to clients who have requested his personal services. But each of the 22 assistants he employs can cut and curl as well as the next. With any luck, a girl will get a glimpse of the real thing, even perhaps be graced by a word or two, delivered over her head, but relating to it: “Not bad,” he will say to the Mr. Ralph or Mr. Daniel or Miss Farr in charge. Or, in a weary voice, “Oh, dear.”

Rest Your Head. For the lady whose schedule is too chock-full to permit her time for a proper session at home or salon, there is another, brand-new alternative. All she has to do is fly to Paris. There, a 29-year-old Frenchman named Cyril will meet her at Orly airport in a Rolls-Royce, which he has outfitted as a mobile salon, complete with dark curtains, hair dryer, curling iron and cosmetics. While the car makes the 30-minute trip into the city, Cyril works busily behind the curtain and deposits milady, newly sprayed and set, at the press conference, wedding party or opening-night audience awaiting her.

“I was always rushing to someone’s hotel,” explains Cyril, “and trying to keep her head in my hands and my head clear while she grappled with her dress and makeup.” The Orly-to-Paris service costs $25, and among his early customers were Audrey Hepburn and Ursula Andress.