23
I have mentioned, I believe, that Oscar Nilson was a wig-maker, the best in New York. His little shop on a quiet side street North of Madison Square is quaint enough to be the setting of an old-fashioned play. The walls are lined with old cuts of historical personages and famous Thespians as historical personages, all with particular attention to their hirsute features. On the counter stands a row of forms, each bearing some extraordinary kind of scalp. Oscar deals in make-up as a side line and the air bears the intoxicating odour of grease paint and cold cream.
Oscar's business is chiefly with the theatrical profession, but many an old beau and fading belle have found out that he knows more about restoring youth than the more fashionable beautifiers. Oscar loves his business. His knowledge, historical, artistic, scientific, is immense—but all in terms of human hair. He can tell you offhand how Napoleon wore his in 1803 or any other year of his career, and will make you an exact sketch of the toupee ordered by the Duke of Wellington when his fell out.
Oscar himself, strangely enough, or perhaps naturally, has next to no hair of his own, merely a little mousy fringe above the ears. He has a jolly rubicund face and is held in high affection and esteem by his customers. He flatters me by taking a particular interest in my custom. I am the only one of his clients in the criminal line.
He led me into one of the little cubicles where the trying-on takes place, and stood off to observe me from between narrowed lids.
"What will it be now?" he said. "I was sorry to read of your accident."
"A mere trifle. What would you suggest? It must stand sunlight and shadow, and be something I can keep up for a while if necessary."
"Let me think! Your head and face offer a good starting-point for so many creations!"
"In other words the Lord left me unfinished," I said, teasingly.
"Not at all! I meant that in your case there were no awkward malformations to be overcome."