The It Girl and Me

Chapter Four

Chapter FourSummer 1924

We celebrated our marriage by buying a living room set and a new bed at Barker Brothers. I hung curtains and planted begonias in little pots for the front step.

Nearly two years flew by. Two years of hamburger steaks and mashed potatoes for dinner, seeing flickers at the State or Grauman’s Rialto downtown, and visiting with Philip and Annie or with Maw and Paw. Evenings, we played checkers or I’d read to Ray from Fitzgerald or Sinclair Lewis.

I still loved my job. I’d mastered shingle haircuts, which were all the rage, but Ray kept trying to audition for parts and not getting them. And his personality began to change. He wasn’t as happy. He wasn’t as easygoing. He wasn’t as romantic or affectionate. He went to work, he came home, and he was often out of sorts.

And then came 1926. At the time, I had no idea how this one year would alter things so completely for all of us. First there was the phone call while I was cooking breakfast.

“Daisy, it’s me, Grace. Paw’s been arrested.”

Oh no. My stomach lurched and I felt faint.

“What for?” I said, knowing what the answer would be. I turned down the heat on the bacon.

“Something about the Wright Act.”

“What in blazes is the Wright Act?” I said.

“Transporting liquor. We hired a lawyer, Mr. Kinney. He said it’s something California passed before Prohibition. Some friends of Charlie’s said they’d buy a big load, so Paw packed up the car and headed out. He got a flat. A patrolman pulled up to help, and before Paw could stop him he went rooting in the back seat for a jack. And pulled at the old blanket covering the bottles.”

“What about the still?” I asked, panicked.

“Don’t worry. Charlie moved it before anybody found it.”

I breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Has he got a sentencing date yet?”

“Maw and I are going to see him right now,” she said. “I’ll let you know the minute I find out. I’ve got to go.”

I offered to help her with money for bail or the lawyer, then put the phone back on the hook. At the sentencing, Ray held my hand as they carted Paw off to jail. What must the Martells have thought of their in-laws? Hillbillies, first off, and now I had a jailbird for a dad. Again. Paw got thirty days for possession, forty-five days for the intended sale, and a one-dollar fine.

They paroled him after a month, and he was out by May, but he was way more careful after that and always kept a jack in the front seat—just in case.

As I made my mark at the beauty shop, things at home didn’t look so rosy anymore. Ray wasn’t himself. He hadn’t liked his Rolls job before, but now he loathed it. Only the money kept him there. He wasn’t getting any screen tests, and when he did he wasn’t what they were looking for. He came home at night, bringing his anger and frustration with him. He’d had black moods before, but now they were an everyday occurrence. He’d never been a big drinker either, but all that changed. He’d pick up hooch somewhere, but never from Paw—I assumed because he didn’t want me to know exactly how much he was drinking.

And although neither of us had ever been especially religious, he began reading his Bible. A lot. And concentrating on things like “Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as to the Lord.”

When was the last time I’d even cracked open the good book? I tried to remember if that was one of the Ten Commandments—honor your husband or some such. Maw and Paw had raised me Baptist, but I couldn’t abide all the fire and brimstone. If I’d known I was marrying some Bible-thumper like Billy Sunday, I damned sure wouldn’t have let him put that ring on my finger in the first place. What had happened to the handsome devil with the twinkle in his eye and the touch that set me on fire? The one who made me laugh? Because this wasn’t him.

I’d serve his chicken or his pork chop and he’d glare at me over the table as he picked at his plate.

“Don’t you like it?” I’d ask.

“It’s all right,” he’d say.

“I can make you something else, if you want.”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Ray, honestly. It’s no trouble. I can fix you a steak . . .”

“I said it’s fine, Daisy.”

I’d shut my mouth and take another spoonful of potatoes, and that was the end of the discussion. Only it never was. The tension remained, and I could never tell what might set him off—not putting enough starch in his shirts, overcooking his vegetables, not doing the dishes immediately after dinner (even though I’d been on my feet all day), or being too tired for s*x. The only thing that cheered me up was going into work.

Business at Vi’s remained brisk with the surge of bobs still going strong, and Maybelle was one of my regulars. She had lovely hair—naturally wavy chestnut with auburn lights shimmering through it. Nice silky texture too. Maybelle was also a decent tipper, especially when she found out where I was from.

“Paducah?” she said. “Why, I’m from Brookport, right across the river!” We got along like bees and blossoms after that.

I still remember the day she changed my life. We were chatting about flickers.

“Daisy, have you seen The American Venus with Esther Ralston?”

“It was wonderful, wasn’t it?” I said.

She lowered her voice and touched my arm. “I don’t see why you’re wasting yourself here, Daisy. You’ve got such a wonderful gift for hair. You should be working at one of the studios. Playing with Madge Bellamy’s hair. Or Bessie Love’s. Or even Mary Pickford’s!” She lowered her voice even further. “Bet they pay better too.”

She quieted down while I was shampooing her, but as I worked in the lather I thought about what she’d said. As I began to trim the ends from her bob with my scissors, I asked her, “You don’t know anyone at the studios, do you, Maybelle?”

She got a devilish gleam in her eye. “Funny you should ask, dear. My husband knows some people at Famous Players-Lasky.”

PARAMOUNT STUDIOS, HOLLYWOOD, CALIFORNIA,

May 1926

“You want hair and makeup,” the guard told me. He pointed down the lane and showed me where to turn.

It had taken Maybelle’s husband a few weeks to pull strings, mostly because of the recent merger. It had been hard breaking the news to Vi. I was so grateful to her for everything. But the thought of working at one of the studios was too tempting to resist.

She hugged me and wished me the best. “Oh, honey, this is an amazing opportunity,” she said. “You’ll be wonderful. I just know it.”

Big changes were afoot when I arrived at the lot on my first day. The studio had been a fixture at Selma and Vine for years before I got there, but when I reported for work, they had me go south a ways to Marathon Avenue. The studio was expanding and taking over a lot nearby that had belonged to United. Plus, two workmen had put up scaffolding and were painting over the old name, changing it from Famous Players-Lasky to Paramount.

The buildings were the usual California Mediterranean style, with whitewashed stucco walls, tile roofs, dramatic arches, and sculptural details outside. I strolled past them. On the one hand, I was excited to see my new workplace, but on the other, I didn’t want to hurry too much so I could soak up all the excitement of being smack-dab in the middle of it all.

The lot was like nowhere I’d ever been in my life. It was full of important-looking men in suits, secretaries hurrying to and fro, and extras wearing everything from French revolution-era coats, breeches, and buckled shoes, to Plains Indians regalia, to Roman centurion helmets, tunics, and sandals. The women wore long hoop skirts with petticoats, gowns with high nipped-in Empire waists, or Greek togas.

Like Vi’s, you could smell the place as you approached it, from the various shampoos, tonics, and lotions the hairdressers were using to the burning smell of marcel irons being tested on paper and found to be too hot. I stopped short in front of the door marked Salon and tugged on it, then went inside. I stood for a moment to let my eyes adjust from the bright sunshine outside to the darker inside with bright lights over the preparation stations.

One older woman moved and spoke with authority. She was a little shorter and plumper than me, with a graying cap of curls. I approached her first.

“I’m Daisy DeBoe. I start work today,” I said. My heart almost pounded out of my rib cage when I saw who was in her chair. Gloria Swanson turned her head impatiently to see what the interruption was and fixed those icy blue eyes on me.

“I’m Edna,” the stylist said. “You can put your stuff over there.” She was obviously distracted and eager to get back to Miss Swanson, so I tiptoed over to my designated vanity.

A woman approached me. She was younger than Edna, and her dark hair was cut into a shaped, shiny bob. “Hi, Daisy. I’m Ruth,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’ll give you the lowdown. Edna calls the shots around here, but as you can see, she’s a little busy. Nobody interrupts her when she’s working on Miss Swanson or Miss Negri. You can get fired for it. But they’ll give you a break because you’re new.”

I nervously snapped open my train case, full of the tools of my trade. Then I waited for some direction.

When she was done and Miss Swanson had strutted off to the set, Edna waddled over to me and held out her hand. “Glad to see a new face around here,” she said. “Sorry I wasn’t able to give you my full attention earlier, but the marquise is quite particular about not being interrupted.” She shook her head. “She got married last year to some French guy with a title. Henri de la Falaise, the Marquis de la Coudraye. I swear. It’s made her insufferable. You’ll soon learn you’ve got a pretty mixed bag as far as the stars we work on here. Most of them are as nice as the day is long. Real salt-of-the-earth folks like you and me. They’re friendly, they don’t complain, and they know we’re here to do our jobs, same as them.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“Which makes up for the other 10 percent who aren’t like that,” she continued. “Either they were born rich and have treated people like servants for years, or they used to be working class like us and changed the minute they earned a cool mill.”

“Anybody in particular I need to watch out for?” I asked. “Other than . . .” I watched Miss Swanson’s retreating figure.

“Pola Negri,” she spat out, like the name was poison. “Mind your p’s and q’s with both of them. Make sure to call Miss Swanson ‘Marquise.’ That’s most important. With the Polack or whatever she is, try not to talk at all. You can never tell what might set her off. Come on, I’ll show you the ropes.”

We got right to work. Edna was a wonderful teacher.

“So the secret of the Chinese queue?” she said as she demonstrated for me on an extra. “Vegetable oil. Comb it through before you start—it gives the hair a nice gloss, and it makes it easier to manage as you’re braiding. Real smooth, see?”

She was right. After we finished the queue (her braiding and me watching), we moved onto the next extra, who sat quietly, waiting for his treatment.

“Wigs are a pain in the keister, but something you have to know how to do. Especially during period pictures, because you’ll have to do so many at a time. Gene here is working on Nell Gwynn with Dorothy Gish, so we’re going to make sure he looks good.” She patted him on the shoulder affectionately, then turned back to me. “First you build the thing, then you powder it. Pay attention.”

She rummaged in her drawer and pulled out some netting, which she fitted onto his head. “I take this netting, wrap it around, and pin it. Make a couple folds and pin them too.” She gathered the netting and pinned it right near Gene’s scalp. “See how I’m marking the hairline? Now cut it about an inch below the mark.”

She pulled the netting off his head.

“Next, bias tape from the fabric store.” She grabbed it out of the vanity and stitched it around the edges. She also inserted some boning and stitched it in as well. “Let me know if you get low on supplies. I go once a week to pick them up. If you don’t know how to sew, this would be a good time to learn.”

She opened one of several drawers that contained human hair. Each drawer had a different color. “See all this hair we’ve already got trimmed? We’re going to have to attach it. So we sew it onto the cap. Start at the bottom, and watch your hairline area. Otherwise it might look strange. Temples too. Very important.”

I moved in a little closer to watch her. It was a long, involved process, but Edna was patient and I was determined to learn. Her stitches were tight, straight, and even.

“Now,” she continued, “comb out the hair, very gently, and do some pin curls to match the specifics we get from the drawings they give us.” She pointed at the diagram, then showed me how she was styling it.

After she was done curling it, she placed the capful of hair back on Gene. “Looks good so far. Now we have to make sure the damned thing will stay on his head. You don’t want him bowing to the king and having his wig fall off.” She pulled it off again. “I’ll put some loops underneath and then thread some string through here.” She whipstitched a couple holes, then fed a length of string through them. “We’ll tighten it and tie it off when we get it on his head so we can see how snug it needs to be.

“Next step is powdering. First, give it the tiniest bit of baby oil.” She rubbed some oil on her hands and then over the wig hair. “Just enough so the powder has something to stick to. But dear God, don’t overdo it. You’re powdering a wig, not baking a cake. Too much oil and it’ll turn into a mess, and you’ll have to start all over. Cost overruns add up. Bad for the studio.”

I nodded, watching her technique.

“Put a little on your hands, Don’t pour it directly on the wig. We use talcum powder. It’s easy and cheap. They used to use a fireplace bellows to get it where it needed to go, but it goes all over the place and you end up wasting a lot. So make sure you get all the nooks and crannies.”

She took handfuls and handfuls of powder and blew them onto the wig from different angles until she was satisfied. Then she shook the wig to get all the excess off, held it up like it was a prize jewel, and gave me a big smile.

“See? Perfect. Here, Gene.” She placed the cap on his head one last time, pulled the string together with a small knot at the back, then turned to me. “Don’t forget the icing on the cake. Those old-fashioned fellows always had a ribbon tying back their hair, so we give them a real pretty one.” She grabbed a length of navy-blue ribbon out of her drawer and tied it with a loose bow.

Edna taught me everything: how to tame cowlicks and widow’s peaks, how to create moustaches and muttonchops out of crepe hair, how to use toupée tape to keep hairpieces in place, and even how to use skullcaps to create baldness. Turning hair gray for aging people was an art in itself.

“For God’s sake, use aluminum powder or Zauder’s white liquid mascaro. Greasepaint is too messy! Believe me, I’ve tried it,” she said.

After I settled in at the salon, I began learning that almost no one in flickers used their real names. I’d always liked Daisy—it suited me. But I didn’t want to change to Martell professionally. With Ray acting so squirrely, I wasn’t ready to call our marriage quits yet, but I suppose I wanted my success to be uniquely mine, just in case. I liked my double D, but “DeBoe” sat there like a hunk of dry cornbread on a plate. Then I realized that by changing only one letter, I could add polish and panache. Daisy DeVoe sounded like a woman with a taste for adventure—an aviatrix or a race car driver.

“Thar’s been DeBoes in this country for generations,” Paw said sadly. “Ain’t no DeVoes but you.”

But Maw glowed. “It do have a certain ring to it, Paw,” she said.

I thought so too.