Lessons from the September 2018 Archives: Vintage Hair Accessories

September 2018 slipped by quietly for most people, but in the world of vintage hair accessories, it left a detailed trail. The summer fairs had wound down, and collectors across Britain were sorting through their finds before the autumn auction season began. Looking back at the blog’s archives from that month, three themes emerge with striking clarity: the enduring appeal of Edwardian tortoiseshell-effect combs, the surprising versatility of 1940s utility hair slides, and the first serious conversations about proper storage for celluloid pieces. These posts were never meant to be definitive guides — they read more like field notes from a passionate observer — but together they form a snapshot of what mattered to collectors at that precise moment.

Edwardian Combs in September Light

The first week of the archive is dominated by Edwardian hair combs, particularly those made from French ivory (a celluloid variant) and genuine horn. One post describes a visit to a country house sale in Suffolk where a set of three graduated combs, still in their original velvet-lined box, went under the hammer. The writer notes the delicate hand-carved openwork — scrolling foliage and a single bird in flight — and laments that the buyer paid well above the estimate. What makes this entry valuable is the detailed description of the patina: a warm honeyed tone on the horn, with slight checking along the spine that the collector considered a mark of authenticity rather than damage. For anyone learning to distinguish horn from early plastics, this kind of first-hand observation is pure gold.

Later that same week, a shorter entry compares two celluloid combs from the same period. One is a plain back-comb in mottled brown, stamped “Made in France,” while the other is a spectacular hair ornament with gilded highlights and imitation gemstones. The writer points out that the plainer comb is actually rarer today because it was used daily and discarded when broken, whereas the ornate piece was reserved for special occasions and survived in greater numbers. This practical insight — that everyday objects can be harder to find than fancy ones — is a recurring theme in the September archives and worth keeping in mind when building a collection.

The Utility Hair Slide: 1940s Ingenuity

Mid-month, the focus shifts to the 1940s. A long, thoughtful post examines the British utility hair slide — a simple metal clip often covered in fabric or painted cellulose acetate. These were produced under wartime austerity regulations, which limited the use of metal and rubber. The writer traces the evolution from the early war years, when slides were purely functional and often unadorned, to the late 1940s when manufacturers began adding decorative touches like stitched ribbon loops or tiny enamel flowers. One photograph in the archive shows a slide with a faded label reading “Utility Furniture & Fittings — Approved by the Board of Trade.” That small detail places the object precisely in its historical moment.

What is particularly useful about this post is the section on identifying genuine utility pieces from later reproductions. The writer explains that original slides have a distinctive dull finish on the metal clip, caused by the wartime ban on chrome plating. The fabric covering is usually rayon or cotton, not nylon, and the stitching is coarse and uneven — done by hand or with a basic machine. Reproduction slides from the 1990s, by contrast, have bright metal edges and perfectly uniform stitching. For a collector browsing a flea market or an online listing, these are the clues that separate a forty-pound original from a five-pound copy.

Celluloid: Beauty and Fragility

The final week of September 2018 addresses a subject that every vintage hair accessory enthusiast must eventually confront: the care and preservation of celluloid. Celluloid was widely used from the 1870s through the 1930s for combs, hairpins, and decorative bands. It can mimic tortoiseshell, ivory, and even coral with remarkable fidelity. But it is also chemically unstable. The archive post explains that celluloid degrades when exposed to heat, humidity, or prolonged contact with other plastics. The writer describes a personal loss — a beautiful mottled brown comb that had been stored in a plastic zip bag and emerged sticky and smelling of camphor. It was beyond repair.

The practical advice that follows is still sound today. Celluloid pieces should be stored individually in acid-free tissue paper or unbleached cotton bags. They need a cool, dry environment with stable temperature — attics and bathrooms are out of the question. The writer also recommends checking celluloid items once a year for any sign of “celluloid disease”: a sticky surface, a vinegar-like odour, or tiny bubbles in the material. If any of these appear, the piece should be isolated immediately to prevent the degradation from spreading to neighbouring items. This is not alarmism; it is the kind of informed caution that saves a collection over decades.

What the Archives Reveal About Collecting Habits

Reading through the September 2018 entries, one notices how often the writer returns to the idea of context. A comb is not just an object; it carries the memory of the workshop where it was carved, the shop where it was sold, the woman who wore it. The archive includes a brief mention of a visit to a museum in Bath where a display of Victorian hair accessories included a handwritten note from the donor, describing how her grandmother had worn a particular tortoiseshell comb on her wedding day in 1887. That note, the writer argues, is as important as the comb itself. It transforms a decorative item into a piece of social history.

This perspective aligns well with earlier discussions on the blog. In A Second Look at the March 2017 Archives, the same writer explored how the provenance of a hair accessory affects its value — not just in monetary terms, but in the richness it brings to a collection. The September 2018 archive extends that idea, showing how even a simple utility slide can tell a story of wartime resourcefulness and quiet dignity.

Practical Lessons for Today

What can a reader take from the September 2018 archives? Three things, I think. First, learn to recognise the materials: horn warms and checks with age; celluloid can be luminous but fragile; metal utility slides have a characteristic dullness. Second, store your collection thoughtfully — the difference between a piece that lasts and one that crumbles is often just a cotton bag and a dark drawer. Third, value the ordinary as much as the extraordinary. A plain Edwardian back-comb may be rarer than a gilded party piece, and a wartime slide with a faded label carries a story that no modern reproduction can match.

If you are new to collecting, the archives also offer a gentle caution against buying on impulse. One entry describes a buyer who purchased a lot of mixed hairpins at an auction, only to discover later that several were made of casein (a milk protein plastic) that had become brittle and crumbled at the slightest pressure. The lesson is not to avoid casein — it has its own charm — but to inspect each piece carefully and understand its material before committing. A small magnifying loupe and a gentle flex test can save a great deal of disappointment.

A final detail from the archive: one collector mentioned storing a rare 1920s celluloid hairband in a wooden jewellery box lined with felt. A year later, the felt had started to discolour the band where they touched. That small mistake taught her to always use acid-free tissue between plastic and any dyed fabric. It’s the kind of concrete takeaway that sticks — and the reason why these field notes from September 2018 are worth revisiting.