The March 2017 Archives: Revisiting Vintage Hair Accessories with Fresh Eyes
When I first opened the March 2017 folder on my old hard drive last week, I expected a handful of hurried notes and a few blurry photographs. Instead, I found a small treasure chest: detailed field notes from a dealer in Brighton, a handwritten guide to identifying early Bakelite hair slides, and a grainy but precious image of a 1930s tortoiseshell comb that had been mislabelled as celluloid for years. That comb now sits in my own collection, and its story is exactly the kind of quiet revelation the March archives are full of.
What the March 2017 Archives Hold
The posts from that month fall into three clear categories: material-spotting guides, silhouette histories, and practical care routines. Unlike later months that leaned heavily into seasonal trends, March 2017 was a deep dive into the physical properties of vintage hair accessories — the way light catches a carved horn hairpin, the specific warmth of a French jet bead, the subtle flex of a good metal hair slide. For a collector, this kind of tactile knowledge is invaluable, and reading those old entries now feels like sitting down with a mentor who insists you touch every piece before you buy it.
Material Mastery
One post that stands out is a thorough comparison of early plastics: casein, celluloid, and the first generation of Bakelite. The author (presumably me, though I barely recognise my own voice) had spent a Saturday afternoon at a flea market in Portobello Road, testing every hair accessory with a hot pin and a sniff test. The result was a simple table that I still use today:
| Material | Hot Pin Test Result | Smell | Common Era |
|---|---|---|---|
| Celluloid | Melts, camphor odour | Sharp, medicinal | 1890s–1930s |
| Casein | Charred, smells of burnt milk | Slightly sour, sweet | 1900s–1950s |
| Bakelite | Does not melt, faint formaldehyde | Chemical, acrid | 1920s–1940s |
That table alone has saved me from misidentifying a dozen pieces over the years. It also taught me that the best way to learn is to collect with your nose as much as your eyes — a lesson that reappears in later posts, including the Blog Archives: January 2017 where the same author (again, my earlier self) applied similar logic to Edwardian jet and silver filigree.
Cult Silhouettes of the 20th Century
March 2017 also included a short series on iconic shapes. The one that caught my attention this time was a piece on the straight-jacket comb — that long, slim comb with a single row of teeth that was used to anchor elaborate Gibson Girl hairstyles in the 1900s and later found a second life in the 1960s beehive. The article explained how the same comb could look radically different depending on the material: a horn version felt heavy and serious, while a celluloid one in tortoiseshell imitation was light and playful. The author (still me) argued that the comb’s silhouette is so simple it becomes a canvas for material expression.
Another silhouette that appeared repeatedly in those archives was the large fabric bow, often made of velvet or grosgrain, pinned to the back of the head. The March 2017 post traced its journey from a practical hair-holder in the 1940s (when women used them to keep hair out of factory machinery) to a statement accessory in the 1980s New Romantic scene. The post included a step-by-step guide to recreating the bow from a vintage pattern — something I had completely forgotten I wrote. It pairs beautifully with the more recent Volume, Not Sparkle: The Quiet Elegance of Vintage Hair Accessories, which explores how understated shapes can carry enormous visual weight.
Practical Wisdom That Holds Up
What struck me most about the March 2017 archives was the practical advice — not the fleeting tips about what’s trendy, but the enduring methods for preserving and styling vintage pieces. One post listed five ways to store hair combs so they don’t warp or lose their finish:
- Wrap each comb individually in acid-free tissue paper, never plastic.
- Store them flat, not standing on their teeth, to avoid pressure marks.
- Keep them away from direct sunlight and radiators — heat is the enemy of early plastics.
- For metal slides, use a soft cloth with a tiny drop of mineral oil to prevent tarnish.
- Never use modern hair clips or pins on vintage accessories; the coatings can react.
These rules are as relevant today as they were seven years ago. I still follow them, and I’ve passed them on to every collector I’ve met since. The archives also contained a note about cleaning vintage hairnets — a topic that rarely gets airtime. The method was simple: soak in lukewarm water with a drop of gentle soap, rinse, and block dry on a towel. No rubbing, no wringing. It’s the kind of quiet, careful knowledge that makes the difference between a net that lasts another decade and one that disintegrates after one wear.
Revisiting with Fresh Eyes
Reading these old posts now, I notice how much my own taste has shifted. In March 2017 I was obsessed with sparkle — rhinestones, crystal beads, anything that caught the light. Today I find myself drawn to the plain horn combs and the matte velvet bands that the younger me dismissed as boring. That change is not a correction; it’s a deepening. The archives remind me that collecting is a conversation with your earlier self, and that the best pieces are the ones you grow into.
If you are new to vintage hair accessories, I recommend starting with the March 2017 posts not because they are definitive (they are not) but because they are curious and honest. They show a collector learning in real time, making mistakes, and sharing them openly. That spirit is what makes this hobby worthwhile — not the perfect collection, but the willingness to handle, test, and understand each piece on its own terms.
One final detail from those archives: a photograph of a single hairpin, unassuming, made of nickel and glass. The caption read, “Found in a charity shop in Lewes for 50p. Not rare, not valuable — but the glass bead is a perfect teardrop, and the pin has never bent. That is its own kind of treasure.” I still have that pin. It sits in a small box on my desk, and every time I open the lid, it reminds me that the March 2017 archives were never about the big discoveries. They were about learning to see the small ones.