These homes were built when we had less, when things were tinier.
Now, every square foot—at roughly a thousand dollars a square foot—is precious real estate.
Just like an older gay man’s head of hair.
I have brought more homes—and wigs—back to life than any other designer in the desert. That is my calling. Teddy does our costuming. Barry is writer, director and producer, while Sid—with a very unsteady hand from Esther—does our makeup. Sid used to do his wife’s makeup when they were married.
Your husband does your makeup? Wake up and the smell the Maybelline, honey!
I have rescued as many Wexler, Cody, Lautner, and Palmer and Krisel homes from peel-and-stick linoleum, Z-Brick walls, floor-to-ceiling floral drapes and La-Z-Boy recliners as Teddy and I have rescued estate sale wigs that have been fried by curling irons, drowned by little girls, and discarded by performers and women trying do a walk of shame at three in the morning with a broken heel and one false eyelash.
“A little powder, a little paint...”
The sun begins to illuminate the mountains, and my own head casts a shadow on the terrazzo tile in my bedroom. I touch the peak of my hair as Petula croons.
My fascination with home and hair all started in downtown Raymore, Alabama.
My best friend growing up was Jolene Perkins. My parents hated not only that my best friend was a girl—I was a pariah among the BB gun, football playin’, catfish catchin’ crew of boys who made my life a living hell—but also that she was named for a Dolly Parton song about a loose, cheating woman.
It also didn’t help matters that her mother, Dotty, was a divorcée (you must, by the way, draw that word out slowly and with disgust as we did in the South—day-vor-sée!) who owned a beauty parlor named The Curl Up & Dye in downtown Raymore.
All the women in town went there to get their hair did, even my mama, a secret my daddy never knew. They went despite Dotty’s history, because no one could back-comb a head of hair like Dotty Perkins.
“Higher the hair, closer to God,” she’d always say. “And most of us need all the help—and height—we can get.”
One day, my daddy caught me playing makeup with a Barbie doll Jolene had given me. I was applying a coat of Bonne Bell Root Beer Lip Smacker I’d stolen from Jolene’s purse to both of our lips. My daddy, a pastor, whooped me until his hand and my head went numb, before praying over my body and begging the Lord to take my sin.
I never cried when my daddy hit me. I just stared past him, searching the heavens, trying to understand why God would make me like this if he didn’t want me to be like this.
That day, after my daddy left, I took off running, ready to hightail it out of town. In came a thunderstorm as I ran—a colossal boomer as loud and angry as his preaching voice—and I took cover in The Curl Up & Dye.
Not a customer was in there that day.
When Dotty saw me, she fell to the black-and-white-checkered floor and opened her arms. I ran into them, and she held me forever.
“You didn’t cry when he hit you, did you, angel?” she whispered.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good boy. I never did either. Strength in the face of hate. That’s what’ll help us survive.” She kissed my cheek. It hurt.
Dotty helped me into her big styling chair, angling me away from the mirror.
“You sit, my sweet, little boy, and I’ll make you as pretty as sunshine again.”
She had an old stereo console in The Curl Up & Dye that played albums and 45s.
That day, she put on “Downtown” by Petula Clark, and she sang to me as she styled my hair and dabbed foundation under my eyes.
And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you... Someone who is just like you... So go downtown...
Dotty never let me see my own face until she was done.
My bruises were gone. My bouffant looked like a white cloud of cotton candy.
“It’s reaching heaven!” I said, touching her wondrous work.
“’Cause you’re an angel, and don’t you ever forget that.”
