Remember ‘Azhagiya Laila’ from Ullathai Allitha (1996)? It’s the song in which Rambha, with flowing brunette hair, stands over a metal grill, with a fan placed cheekily below, lifting her red dress to conjure the image of Marilyn Monroe. A minute into the song, her tresses suddenly change styles. They’re darker and wavier, and match the actress’ new grey crop top. Then, it’s back to brown again. It was a time when a song demanded at least four wardrobe changes — each with its own hairstyle. It may be natural for you to envy Rambha’s genes for her lush hair, but let it be known that the hairstyles are a result of the work of people like N. Subbarao, one of Kodambakkam’s last remaining wig makers.
“Rambha madam called on me even last year when she came down from Canada to judge a reality show,” says Subbarao, who’s been weaving wigs for 25 years. “That song brought me a lot of fame. It made me so busy then that I once worked four days without sleep to complete all the films I had committed to,” he says, adding that he was known in the industry as a ‘ladies’ wig specialist’.
“Until the early 2000s, no one would act without a wig… it was an unwritten rule,” says V. K. Murugan, whose family has been in the business of wig making for over 50 years. “Every time a role was written, a sketch would be drawn alongside with ideas for the actor’s hairstyle. For instance, a poor man’s role would require a wig that looked shabby with a few dreadlocks. Similarly, a wealthy woman would be shown wearing a thick kondai ( bun), often with streaks of grey.”
These wig makers charged production houses between Rs. 5,000 and Rs. 50,000 for wigs, and Rs. 1,500 and Rs. 5,000 for beards. Once purchased, these wigs would work their way down from stars to junior artistes until they became unusable. Damaged wigs would also be repaired to be given out for use in drama and TV serials.
“When times were good, all my customers were from the cinema industry. That isn’t the case anymore,” says Saleem, from his shop, which he has adorned with silver jubilee placards of Vaanathaippola and Kanthaswamy . “People come to me when they start balding, others for extensions, but a majority of my customers are cancer survivors,” adds Saleem, who has worked in over 200 films in his 30-year career.
Oddly, the wig makers blame directors’ high demand for realism for their lack of work. “With so many close-up shots these days, directors are asking for wigs that look exactly like real hair,” complains Babu, who works for G.K.K. Wigs in Vadapalani. “Our wigs can’t compete with the imported silicone ones that are being used these days. Ours find place only in period films such as Aravaan and Aayirathil Oruvan . I hear Baahubali is doing well. Maybe that will start a trend,” he adds.
However, Subbarao feels the lowered production costs have made a difference to their profession. He says, “Earlier, we were guaranteed a certain number of films a month. Producers would approach our union and our assistants would be given call sheets.
But filmmaking itself has shrunk now. From 200 people working on a film, it has come down to just 20. Digital filmmaking has made production so cheap that they don’t approach us anymore before.”
Their fall from grace has forced their children to look elsewhere for a career. Saleem says, “Kids these days don’t have the patience to learn wig weaving anyway. A good wig takes three days to make. Fingers start hurting and the task is also very demanding on the eyes. I took three years to learn the technique. It’s all for the satisfaction of seeing my work on the big screen. Who knows what will happen to this craft after us?”
