constructing the court ladies’ hairstyle.
Nothing like this startling edifice had been worn before. In previous times, Roman women harped piously on ‘traditional simplicity’. The more ostentatiously virtuous relatives of the Emperor Augustus, starting with his chilly sister Octavia, had scraped modest ringlets on the nape of their necks. Some parted the front and took their hair down each side to their bejewelled ears, an effect that could be achieved naturally, though it was in hairdressers’ interests to suggest waves either side of the parting, which required curling rods. Other women had a rolled topknot just above the forehead. It looked severe but added ‘lift’. This noun is frequently dropped into hairdressers’ conversation. ‘Lift’ needs assistance, whatever the hair type.
Lachne’s new style had stupendous lift. It consisted of a comical crescent of false or real hair, covered all over with a crush of pincurls. It lofted above the wearer’s face from ear to ear, like a curly tiara. Of course the look required support, either a wire framework, which was lighter, or padding, which was more comfortable but heavier – though women found it altered how they held their heads and gave them a sense of dignity. Their own hair, which was redundant to the effect, would be plaited and coiled on the back of their heads. False curls allowed the whole front structure to be removed, which saved having to sleep upright.
The rows of frontal curls were a challenge for sculptors. Apart from the technical difficulty, it is not easy to ply a chisel while trying not to grin.
Wearing this hairstyle women could not judge how odd they looked. In boudoirs of the day, even the most beautifully ornamented bronze or silver hand-mirrors had polished metal surfaces that showed only blurred images.
The curly coronet was as hot as a bearskin to wear. From the side, it seemed liable to topple off. From behind, joins showed. Yearning to be fashionistas, Flavian ladies were nevertheless convinced by their attendants that they looked quite lovely. Other people that they might have consulted were no help. What husband, when asked, ‘How is my hair today, Septimus?’ was ever going to answer, ‘Bunnikins, you look ridiculous’? Septimus was probably miles away, dreaming of screwing that kitchen girl with the enormous breasts, or wistfully lusting after his favourite altar-boy, the one who wore his tunics unbelievably short to display those pert buttocks ready for rodding . . . Even down-to-earth husbands would be just as vague, as they groaned over the price of oxen or wondered how to catch out a business manager who was blatantly fiddling. Perhaps a rare wholesome specimen might instead be philosophising on human goodness – though on the whole Roman men were more fascinated by badness.
From a young age, Flavia Lucilla had helped create the crazy concoctions with which women of the Flavian family turned themselves into trendsetters. Even under Vespasian, an emperor whose political appeal was ‘old country values’, it was permissible for respectable women to spend hours having their hair tended. Some women enjoyed being viciously cruel to the slaves who had to work on them; they could pinch and punch and beat unhappy foreign girls while they were themselves beautified. All knew that complicated hair made them expensive ornaments to their noble menfolk, which the men liked, and which showed that the upper classes were special because they had leisure and money for time-consuming processes. Their men were taught to go along with it. For one thing they reassured themselves that while wives were being combed endlessly indoors, they were not out committing adultery with charioteers. (Men believed that was what all wives dreamed of; wives gossiped that some of their number indeed managed it.)
Lucilla always smiled wryly at the concept of her mother as a guardian of morals. But she did admire a woman who could persuade her clients
Nothing like this startling edifice had been worn before. In previous times, Roman women harped piously on ‘traditional simplicity’. The more ostentatiously virtuous relatives of the Emperor Augustus, starting with his chilly sister Octavia, had scraped modest ringlets on the nape of their necks. Some parted the front and took their hair down each side to their bejewelled ears, an effect that could be achieved naturally, though it was in hairdressers’ interests to suggest waves either side of the parting, which required curling rods. Other women had a rolled topknot just above the forehead. It looked severe but added ‘lift’. This noun is frequently dropped into hairdressers’ conversation. ‘Lift’ needs assistance, whatever the hair type.
Lachne’s new style had stupendous lift. It consisted of a comical crescent of false or real hair, covered all over with a crush of pincurls. It lofted above the wearer’s face from ear to ear, like a curly tiara. Of course the look required support, either a wire framework, which was lighter, or padding, which was more comfortable but heavier – though women found it altered how they held their heads and gave them a sense of dignity. Their own hair, which was redundant to the effect, would be plaited and coiled on the back of their heads. False curls allowed the whole front structure to be removed, which saved having to sleep upright.
The rows of frontal curls were a challenge for sculptors. Apart from the technical difficulty, it is not easy to ply a chisel while trying not to grin.
Wearing this hairstyle women could not judge how odd they looked. In boudoirs of the day, even the most beautifully ornamented bronze or silver hand-mirrors had polished metal surfaces that showed only blurred images.
The curly coronet was as hot as a bearskin to wear. From the side, it seemed liable to topple off. From behind, joins showed. Yearning to be fashionistas, Flavian ladies were nevertheless convinced by their attendants that they looked quite lovely. Other people that they might have consulted were no help. What husband, when asked, ‘How is my hair today, Septimus?’ was ever going to answer, ‘Bunnikins, you look ridiculous’? Septimus was probably miles away, dreaming of screwing that kitchen girl with the enormous breasts, or wistfully lusting after his favourite altar-boy, the one who wore his tunics unbelievably short to display those pert buttocks ready for rodding . . . Even down-to-earth husbands would be just as vague, as they groaned over the price of oxen or wondered how to catch out a business manager who was blatantly fiddling. Perhaps a rare wholesome specimen might instead be philosophising on human goodness – though on the whole Roman men were more fascinated by badness.
From a young age, Flavia Lucilla had helped create the crazy concoctions with which women of the Flavian family turned themselves into trendsetters. Even under Vespasian, an emperor whose political appeal was ‘old country values’, it was permissible for respectable women to spend hours having their hair tended. Some women enjoyed being viciously cruel to the slaves who had to work on them; they could pinch and punch and beat unhappy foreign girls while they were themselves beautified. All knew that complicated hair made them expensive ornaments to their noble menfolk, which the men liked, and which showed that the upper classes were special because they had leisure and money for time-consuming processes. Their men were taught to go along with it. For one thing they reassured themselves that while wives were being combed endlessly indoors, they were not out committing adultery with charioteers. (Men believed that was what all wives dreamed of; wives gossiped that some of their number indeed managed it.)
Lucilla always smiled wryly at the concept of her mother as a guardian of morals. But she did admire a woman who could persuade her clients
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