‘I’ve been wearing wigs for 30 years’

Published Jun 5, 2013

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London - The bad fairy at my birth cursed me with fine hair. Ever since, I have longed to be like my friends who all have thick, lustrous locks. Their hair bounces into a glorious frame for their faces, while mine lies flat and shapeless, clinging to my skull, making my big face look even bigger.

I have tried ‘volumising’ shampoos - what a con. I have slathered my follicles with ‘root lifting’ mousses and sprays - another waste of money.

I watch my friends effortlessly shake their hair into shape, and try to sympathise when they claim they have had a ‘Bad Hair Day’. Come on, girls, you have no idea what it is like to have a Bad Hair Life.

And so I have a confession to make. For the past 30 years plus, if you’ve seen me on the television or on the red carpet, it’s likely I’ve been wearing a wig.

I first took the desperate step of buying one when I was in my early 30s. Since then, I’ve often worn one when presenting a show or at an event or job that needed a bit of bounce, a bit of glamour.

Today, I have seven wigs, because each time I’ve changed the colour of my hair, I’ve had to buy a new one in the same new colour. God forbid a real tendril should escape from underneath the wig, exposing my terrible secret.

Wigs can be terribly expensive - thousands of pounds if they are made from real hair. But aside from the expense, I’ve never liked the idea of real hair. It feels tasteless and exploitative to wear tresses cut from the heads of nuns or penniless Chinese farmers’ wives.

So I’ve gone for the cheap and cheerful nylon variety - the kind that costs around £80, that you can pack at the bottom of a suitcase, then shake out and pull on like a hat.

Alas, I have eventually learned that on me, it looks exactly like what it is - a cheap wig on a desperate woman with baby-fine hair.

This is why I’ve decided to come clean about my secret wig addiction - and give them up from now on.

When I started wearing them, I took as my role models the famous, glamorous women, the sex symbols, who are quite open about the fact that they spend their lives in wigs.

I recently saw Joan Collins at a party, now a glorious 80 years old, wearing a hugely exuberant head of hair. It must have been heavy and hot, but the lady wore it with style - though I slightly prefer the shorter, more businesslike wigs she wore to villainous effect in Dynasty.

Carry On actress Barbara Windsor wears wigs and extensions - she has soft fine hair that refuses to frame her face, like mine.

I once shared a hairdresser’s salon with Dame Shirley Bassey. Not the whole diva, mind you - just her wig.

And when Michael Parkinson interviewed Dolly Parton, gazing with awe at her ornate construction of ringlets and asking, ‘Dolly, how long does it take to do your hair?’ she replied, ‘I don’t know. I’m never there.’ Good for her.

When I bought my first wig, I was working as a television presenter for That’s Life. I had just been arrested for handing out bat stew to passers-by in the street as a stunt for the show (not because the stew was dangerous, but the police said I was causing an obstruction).

The paparazzi gathered round me as I was released from the police station. As it was raining at the time, my thin hair was left straggling over my face and head. When I saw the pictures, enough was enough.

I was then a regulation television-presenter streaky-blonde colour, so I bought myself a blonde wig.

My late husband Desmond hated it. He declared it looked like a shaggy mountain goat, and would even wear it himself, claiming it suited him better than it did me.

But I thought from a distance it was passable, so I persevered. Such was my fear of showing off those thin strands again.

But my wig was a nightmare in a high wind - I thought it might take off at any moment - and no good at all in my open-top car. I once had to slam on the brakes and chase it down the road, hoping the neighbours would think I was saving the life of a much-loved chihuahua.

Barbara Castle, the famously red-haired politician who often wore a wig for public occasions, once warned me how important it is to anchor your wig with pins.

She described the time she was asked to lay a foundation stone on a building site, and a piece of wire protruding from a door frame hooked the smart red wig, leaving it swinging over her head while she had to carry on without it.

But I could never find the right pins to use as anchors - no matter how spiky or painful, they would never stick the wig to my head.

I soon got caught out. One red carpet awards ceremony I was presenting took place in a faraway seaside town. The organisers sent a stretch limo to take me there and bring me home. I dragged on a wig and hoped for the best.

My first hurdle was getting in and out of the limo. If I hit my head on the door-frame, I knew the wig would topple off.

By bending double, I somehow managed to keep my hair on. But it was a long night and I fell asleep on the way home. I woke to see the driver pointing a camera at me.

The wig had revolved, so the hair at the back now covered my face. I tried to smile while pulling nylon hair out of my teeth. I still dread those pictures emerging somewhere.

But that first blonde wig did have its fans. Magician Uri Geller once told me how much he liked my new hairdo - illusionist he might be, but he certainly fell for my illusion.

By contrast, the late Michael Winner saw through it at once. ‘That’s a wig,’ he bellowed at a film premiere. ‘No it’s not,’ I said weakly.

Why did I lie? Because wearing fake hair makes me feel guilty, even ashamed. But I was desperate. I learned to live with the feeling.

When I appeared on Stars in Their Eyes, I bought a jet-black wig to help me look like singer Edith Piaf, whom I was impersonating. To this day, I call that wig Edith. Piaf must be revolving in her grave.

With Strictly Come Dancing, the thought of having to dance the rumba, the ‘dance of love’, with Anton du Beke, sent me running to the wig department in Selfridges. Anything to distract the judges from my feet.

I found a bright red number (which I christened ‘Sharon’ after Mrs Osbourne) and had my own hair dyed to match it.

Sadly, my wig failed to distract the judges from my rumba - ‘disaster, darling’ was their verdict.

In real life too, Sharon fooled nobody. I was wearing Sharon when I met comedienne Ruby Wax.

She looked straight at my hairline. As my wig was approximately Ruby’s colour I hoped she might approve. She didn’t.

‘Is that a wig?’ she said accusingly. This time I decided to be honest. ‘Of course,’ I said, feeling embarrassed as she tried to contain her laughter.

Red hair is a nightmare to keep dying, so finally I decided to let it grow out for the first time in 40 years.

As my real colour emerged after so long under wraps, I expected it to be grey or white. Grey would have been fine - it’s supposedly slightly thicker and coarser. For once, I thought, I might have a frame to my face.

But lo! It turns out that, like my father, I haven’t gone grey. My hair is still brown and as wispy as ever.

So now I’ve had to buy myself a brunette wig, this time from a wig specialist in London’s Notting Hill.

I wore it for the first time in earnest at a recent ITV Audience With. I washed my hair, did what I could with rollers and mousse, decided it wasn’t enough, and at the last moment, on went the wig. It was hot and itchy, but once it was on, it was there for the whole night.

The show was followed by a party with the cream of show business. As I greeted each one, I saw to my horror that their eyes were fixed on my hairline.

When I went to the loo I saw why. The wig had lifted so that it looked like a hairy balloon on the back of my head, with my real fringe poking out at the front. It was the final humiliation.

After many years and many hairy incarnations, I have to conclude that wigs are a total nightmare.

My advice is that if you have your own hair - any amount of your own hair - stick with it and find a good hairdresser.

And so, for the first time in more than 30 years, I’m going to try and manage without the wigs I’ve I had become so peculiarly reliant on. Looking back, I don’t think really they’ve ever done me any favours.

My hair may be flat, fine and limp, but it’s still my own.

And I’d rather have the shame of a flat do than constantly live with the fear of a gust of wind revealing my terrible, hair-raising secret. - Daily Mail

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