In
Colonial Williamsburg, the wigmaker, who was also the barber, performed important
functions for the townspeople. A colonist could go to his or her shop to get a
trim or a bath, hear the latest news, discuss politics, and buy soaps, powders,
and lice treatments.
Only
about five percent of the population could afford wigs. The wigmaker shaved men’s
and women’s heads (or cut their hair really short) so that their wigs would fit
more snugly. I have read that shaving the head in those days was also a method
of preventing lice, or at any rate, lice were easier to wash out of a wig than
out of one’s own hair. But our peruke maker did not mention this hazard of 18th
century hygiene. Instead, she spoke of perukes as indications of a person’s
social status. I’ve also read that young legislators might opt for a white
powdered wig in order to be thought older and wiser by their peers.
Williamsburg was the capital of Virginia for a time, and even Thomas Jefferson
frequented this peruke maker’s shop.
A
peruke maker knotted goat, yak, horse, or human hair to a net base and wove the
strands into a wig. S/he might powder a peruke, curl it, dye it, and later
reshape and redye it. A gentleman’s peruke, powdered or not, was often gathered
at the back of the neck with a ribbon. He might ask the wigmaker to “club” it
for him, which meant wrapping the tail in cloth so that the dangling hair
resembled a club. Ladies’ perukes were often fancy, tall piles of curls and
ringlets. Note the masted ship model on top of one wig in the photo. Our peruke
maker said the most elaborate order she had fulfilled for a lady going to a
ball was a peruke topped with a sparrow in a birdcage.
Like
the peruke maker’s shop, in Colonial Williamsburg the milliner’s shop served as
a gathering place to hear the latest news. In addition to making and tailoring
just about every item of clothing, the milliner made nightcaps and other caps
to warm all the bald and close-shaven heads of peruke wearers.
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