Of Clown Wigs and Clown Names

"Our clowns are not to be laughed at" frequently intoned Swede Johnson of Ringling Brothers. Besides the obvious crazed satire implied in that statement, there were aspects of professional clowning that were no laughing matter -- such as being able to afford the best professional clown shoes, wigs, and costumes. And coming up with a good clown name.

If you were a hobo clown or character clown it wasn't such a big deal. Your wardrobe came from Goodwill or the Salvation Army. Your own hair usually worked well as a wig. But an auguste clown or a classical whiteface had higher, and more costly, traditional standards to adhere to.

I was fortunate enough to have an accomplished seamstress as my mother. After she got over the initial shock of having a son who wore more makeup than she did each day, she was happy to run me up a pair of parti-colored baggy pants whenever I asked her. I bought polka dot pregnancy blouses by mail order for a song. On me, they looked good.


As a whiteface clown I was willing to spend a month's salary to buy a pair of basic black clown shoes my first year with Ringling. I traced the outlines of both my feet and mailed it, with a money order for two hundred dollars, to a specialty shoe company in Chillicothe Ohio. A month later they arrived; two feet long and padded with horsehair. That one pair lasted me for the next twenty years. There was a cobbler in Venice Florida who specialized in resoling clown shoes, so I would take them to him every winter. And they were the most comfortable shoes I ever had. When I switched over to classical pantomime a few years later down in Mexico I insisted on wearing them instead of the de rigueur ballet slippers, much to the despair of my Paris-trained mime instructor.

But my wig and my clown name proved more difficult problems that first circus season.

All First of Mays were required to come up with a clown name before the show reached Madison Square Garden in April, so the new programs could feature our photos with our clown names. I thought Tim the Clown was just fine. I didn’t want to get stuck with some silly appellation like Boo Boo or Clanky or Duffo. I liked my own first name and thought it would be peachy keen to see it immortalized for the ages in the circus program. But Art Ricker, the publicity director for the Blue Unit, thought otherwise.

“No can do, pal” he said to me while the show was still in Greenville South Carolina. He called everyone ‘pal,’ even the star acts. “You gotta have a cutesy name; direct orders from Mr. Feld.”

I pointed out to him that veteran clowns like Prince Paul and Otto Griebling didn’t have ‘cutesy’ clown names. They were simply called by their first names. I merely wanted the same professional courtesy. Ricker’s eyes narrowed to slits before he answered me:

“They’ve been here thirty years, pal. They’ve earned the right to be called by their own names. What’s your claim to fame?”

He had me there, so I promised to come up with something before we hit the Big Apple.

All of us First of Mays held conclave a few days later at an all-night diner that served biscuits and sausage gravy and little else, to thrash out our new names. Various monikers were floated around: “Cuddles”. “Chucko”. “Binky Boodle”. “Floogle” (this from a guy who was obsessed with Abbott & Costello, and could quote their Floogle Street routine verbatim).

I toyed with my biscuits and gravy, nothing but a sodden clump of mush by now, and told the group I’d rather cut my own throat than go through life with a clown name like “Winky”.

“We gotta be more classy!” I declared.

Guzzling iced tea like fiends, we rededicated ourselves to the task. And finally came up with some fairly whimsical clown names. Roofus T. Goofus. T.J. Tatters. Elmo Smooch.

As the night wore on a clown name was developed for everyone. Except me. The creative juices dried up when my clown character was discussed. The only halfway decent name suggested was “Pinhead,” since that’s what Swede Johnson called me anyways.

I was spared such a fate when the short order cook behind the counter turned up the TV for a wrestling match. The featured contender was announced as Dusty Rhodes.

Voila! Dusty the Clown sounded just right. Short and informal and affectionate. I told it to Art Ricker the next day. He approved.

Would that the clown wig problem could have been resolved as easily!

Back when Nixon infested the White House I had luxurious light brown hair that curled winsomely when I let it grow down to my shoulders. A natural clown wig, I thought. But the veteran clowns were unanimously against it.

“It looks cheap” said Prince Paul.

“It’s not a good fit with your whiteface” counseled Mark Anthony.

And the boss clown, LeVoi Hipps, warned me “Mr. Feld won’t stand for it. All whitefaces have to use a professional clown wig or he’ll throw them off the show!”

A professional clown wig meant either a Zauder wig or a Bob Kelly wig. They were both headquartered in New York City, and used nothing but yak hair for their clown wigs. Yak hair stands up to wear and tear (and custard pies) much better than human hair or synthetic materials. And yak hair only comes from Tibet. So a full wig cost somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred smackers back in 1971. Today I don’t think you can even get one.

Now I had made myself a solemn vow that come pestilence or pyrotechnics I was going to save twenty-five hundred dollars that first season out of my clown salary. My colleagues and contemporaries, if you ever run across any of them escaped from Arkham Asylum, will gladly testify that I was as close-fisted as they come -- unwilling to spend a dime that was not absolutely necessary to keep body and soul together (unless it was a book from a used book store). I had put out for my clown shoes, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it for a Zauder wig. My hand became palsied when I held my bankbook and contemplated the damage that would occur should I give in. And yet I risked losing a job I really loved if I didn’t comply.

I tried using a cloth bald wig, as Prince Paul did. But the mass of curly brown hair bunched up under the bald wig gave my head a bizarre lumpy appearance that sent children screaming into their mother’s arms. And I didn’t want to get a crew cut. I bought cheap frowzy wigs from Goodwill and dyed them bright orange, but they kept slipping off my noggin at inopportune times during clown gags, and disintegrated so readily that I had to replace them every few weeks.

I finally settled on the expedient of using oversized felt hats, dyed bright green or red, pulling them down over my head until I could barely see. That got me through the rest of the season without any further disparaging remarks from the senior clowns or management. But it was very uncomfortable and a darn nuisance -- it messed up my clown makeup terribly.

After my LDS mission when I came back to Ringling to repair my fortunes I tried using the hat trick again, but times had changed and Ringling clowns were expected to have well-groomed and brightly colored hairstyles -- no exceptions. So I knuckled under and got myself a 500 dollar Bob Kelly yak hair wig in a fetching straw yellow. I’ve still got it packed away in a freezer bag in my storage closet. It smells faintly of stale popcorn and manure, even after a thousand washings. I guess I could give it to one of the grand kids for next Halloween. Naw . . . one of these days I’ll donate it to the Circus World Museum in Baraboo so they can put it up on display (or more likely file it away under “Health Hazard”).

For an interesting additional take on clown costumes you can read this old NYT story featuring Steve Smith and Frosty Little: http://www.nytimes.com/1985/04/19/style/clowns-on-a-shopping-spree-it-s-hard-to-be-outrageous.html