Blog Archives: January 2017 — Vintage Hair Accessories in British Fashion

When I first opened the January 2017 archives of this journal, I expected a quiet month—post-holiday lull, collectors hibernating, the usual winter dormancy in the vintage trade. Instead, I found a cascade of reader letters, flea-market dispatches, and a single photograph that changed how I thought about Edwardian hair combs. That photograph, tucked inside a plain cardboard folder labelled ‘Miss P. W., 1912’, showed a young woman with an intricately carved tortoiseshell comb holding back a cascade of pinned curls. The comb’s central motif—a leaping hare—was almost hidden by the angle of her hat. I’ve been thinking about hares ever since.

January 2017 turned out to be a month of small discoveries with large implications. Below, I’ve gathered the fragments that felt most alive: a buyer’s note on authenticating vintage bakelite slides, a reader’s guide to restitching silk roses on torn hairbands, and a quiet manifesto on why we archive the old things at all.

The Hare Comb and the Edwardian Hair Slide Revival

Edwardian hair slides (what American collectors sometimes call ‘barrettes’) are having a moment in British vintage circles, but in 2017 they were still largely overlooked. The hare comb from Miss P. W.’s photograph sparked a three-week correspondence with a retired jeweller from Kent who explained that the comb was almost certainly made from chelonia—genuine tortoiseshell, legally traded before the 1973 CITES restrictions. He noted that the carving technique, called cameo intaglio, required the artisan to leave a thin layer of the shell’s dark outer surface while cutting away the lighter inner layers to create contrast. Most surviving examples today are either too fragile to wear or have been re-polished so aggressively that the detail is lost.

For collectors in January 2017, the key insight was this: look for the back of the comb. An intact chelonia slide will show subtle striations—fine, wavy lines that run parallel to the teeth. Imitations in early celluloid (which was marketed as ‘French ivory’ in the 1910s) have a uniform, almost plastic sheen and lack those natural growth marks. If you hold a genuine piece up to a low-wattage bulb, the light passes through with a warm, amber glow; celluloid looks milky and flat.

Practical Notes on Care from the Archive

• Cleaning chelonia: Never submerge a genuine tortoiseshell comb in water. Use a barely damp cotton bud with a drop of almond oil to lift residue from between the teeth. Buff gently with a soft flannel—never a paper towel, which will scratch the surface.
• Storage: Wrap each piece in acid-free tissue paper and store flat, never stacked. Tortoiseshell can warp in heat—keep it away from radiators and direct sunlight.
• Wearability: If the comb’s teeth are loose, consult a conservator who specialises in horn and shell. At-home glue repairs often cause irreversible yellowing.

The 1920s Velvet Bow: A Reader-Saved Pattern

Mid-month, a reader from Edinburgh sent in a folded sheet of brown waxed paper containing a hand-drawn pattern for a 1920s velvet bow hair ornament—the kind that flapper girls pinned to the side of a cloche hat. The original had been made of silk velvet in deep burgundy, backed with a stiffened net called ‘crinolette’ that gave the loops their standing shape. The reader’s grandmother had worked as a milliner’s assistant in Glasgow in 1926, and the pattern had been tucked inside a hatbox ever since.

What made this archive entry special was the construction detail: the bow was not sewn to a flat hair clip but to a long, thin metal hairpin with a corkscrew twist. The pin was inserted directly into a rolled bob—a technique that feels foreign to modern users accustomed to spring-loaded jaw clips. Yet the logic is elegant: the corkscrew grip holds firmly without damaging the hair shaft, and the bow sits flush against the head rather than tilting forward.

If you want to recreate this look today, seek out vintage corkscrew hairpins (often sold as ‘Edwardian side pins’ in antique jewellery lots). Modern replicas exist but are usually too thick to slide smoothly into fine hair. A genuine 1920s pin will feel light, almost fragile, with a visible seam where the wire was twisted by hand. Pair it with a modern silk velvet ribbon in a jewel tone—emerald or sapphire—and tie a soft bow around the pin’s centre before curling the loops with your fingers. No glue, no heat: just a single knot and a moment of patience.

Why January 2017 Felt Like a Turning Point

Looking back, that month marked a shift in how British collectors talked about hair accessories. Until then, most online conversations centred on buying and selling—prices, rarity, ‘grail’ pieces. But the January archive shows something quieter: people were beginning to use their collections again. A university student in Manchester wrote about wearing her grandmother’s 1950s shell hair comb to a seminar; a embroidery artist in Brighton restitched faded ribbon on a Victorian hairnet and posted step-by-step photos. There was a growing sense that these objects were meant to be touched, not just catalogued.

This aligns with what I’ve since learned about the broader ‘slow fashion’ movement in Britain. Vintage accessories, particularly those made before 1960, were constructed to be repaired—buttons replaced, clasps tightened, stones reset. Knowing how to perform those small acts of care is part of the collector’s craft. I’ve written a separate guide on archiving vintage hair accessories: a practical HTML guide for collectors that includes a simple checklist for documenting condition before any restoration work begins. It’s designed for beginners who want to keep a digital record without fancy software.

Spring Clips and the 1950s Housewife Aesthetic

Late January brought a surprising debate: whether metal snap clips (the kind with a small lever that opens the jaw) qualify as ‘vintage’ if they were produced in the 1950s and 1960s. The answer, I think, depends on intention. A snap clip from a 1958 department store counter—stamped ‘Made in England’ with a brushed gold finish—carries a different story than a mass-produced 1990s copy. The 1950s versions were often hand-assembled: the spring was inserted, the outer shell crimped, the lever tested by a worker. You can see the tiny file marks where excess metal was removed.

These clips work beautifully with modern updos. I use one to hold a low twisted bun at the nape of my neck; the clip’s slim profile means it doesn’t create a visible lump under a scarf or collar. The trick is to avoid overtightening the spring—if the clip feels hard to open, it’s straining the hinge. A few drops of sewing machine oil on the pivot point (applied with a toothpick) can restore smooth action without disassembly.

A Gentle Reminder on Materials and Skin

A reader who collects vintage hair ornaments asked about nickel sensitivity—many pre-1970s clips contain nickel in the metal alloy. The practical solution shared in the archives was to line the inside of the clip with a thin strip of medical-grade silicone tape (available at any chemist). Cut a strip just narrower than the clip’s jaw, press it onto the inner surface, and trim the ends. The tape is invisible when worn and prevents the metal from contacting the hairline. For decorative combs, a dab of clear nail polish on the metal teeth that touch the scalp can create a barrier—but test a hidden spot first, as some vintage finishes react badly to solvents.

How I Use the January 2017 Notes Today

I keep a printed copy of the hare comb correspondence in my workbox. Whenever I’m asked to appraise an Edwardian slide, I pull it out and check the back for those striations. The velvet bow pattern is taped inside my wardrobe door. And the reader letters—they remind me that vintage hair accessories are not isolated artefacts; they are invitations to a conversation across decades.

If you have a January 2017 memory—a comb discovered at an antiques fair, a bow recreated from a grandmother’s sketch—I hope you’ll hold onto it. The small month that seemed quiet turned out to be full of hares and hinges and hands that knew how to make things last.