The Mystery of the Missing Yullya Hair Combs

For anyone who has spent time among the glass cases of Portobello Road or sifted through the velvet-lined trays at a country house sale, the name “Yullya” might ring a faint, almost forgotten bell. It is not a brand that appears in the standard reference books, nor does it feature in the glossy catalogues of the great costume jewellery houses. Yet among a small circle of collectors in the Home Counties, the Yullya hair comb—a delicately carved piece of French ivory celluloid, often set with a single marcasite flower—has achieved near-mythic status. The reason is less about the object itself and more about the story of how so many of them vanished.

I first encountered the name in a dog-eared notebook that came with a lot from a deceased estate in Surrey. The notebook belonged to a Miss Eleanor Yullya—or so the inscription read—and it contained meticulous sketches of hair ornaments, along with notes on materials and prices from the late 1920s. The combs themselves were nowhere to be found. The auctioneer shrugged and said they had probably been sold off separately years ago. That was the beginning of a quiet obsession that has, over the years, drawn me into a rabbit warren of provincial archives, old trade journals, and the memories of elderly hairdressers.

Who Was Yullya?

Eleanor Yullya appears to have been a milliner’s daughter who turned to accessory design after the First World War. She operated from a small workshop on Charlotte Street in London, specialising in hair combs and slides that combined Art Deco geometry with a distinctly British restraint. Unlike the flamboyant French houses that favoured rhinestones and gilt, Yullya worked primarily in celluloid—then a modern, lightweight alternative to tortoiseshell—and used marcasite, a pale iron pyrite that catches light without the flash of diamond. Her pieces were sold through a handful of independent department stores: Liberty, Dickins & Jones, and a now-defunct shop in Cheltenham called The Linen Tree.

What made Yullya combs distinctive was a subtle undercutting on the back of the prongs, a feature that allowed the comb to grip even the finest hair without pulling. This detail, visible only when the comb is turned over, is the first thing a seasoned collector checks. If you ever come across a vintage comb with a slight concave groove on the inner edge of each tine, you may be holding a Yullya—or at least a contemporary copy.

The Great Disappearance

The mystery begins in the autumn of 1932. Eleanor Yullya had just completed a large commission for a wedding party—twelve matching combs, each with a different flower motif, intended for the bride and her attendants. The combs were delivered to the bride’s family home in Hampshire. A week later, the house suffered a small fire in the attic. No one was hurt, but the combs were presumed lost. Insurance was paid out, and the matter was closed.

Except that, over the following decades, individual Yullya combs began surfacing at flea markets and second-hand shops across southern England—always one at a time, always in excellent condition, and always with the same faint smell of old cedar and camphor. Collectors started to piece together a theory: the fire had not destroyed the combs. They had been rescued, then scattered deliberately, perhaps by a disgruntled servant or a relative who wanted to keep a few pieces without attracting notice. The combs became known among enthusiasts as “the missing Yullyas.”

By the 1960s, interest had faded. The name was all but forgotten. Then, in 2017, a small cache of five Yullya combs turned up in a charity shop in Lewes. They were in a cardboard box marked “old hair things, £2 each.” A sharp-eyed dealer bought the lot, and within a month the combs had been identified and sold at auction for a total of £1,200. The event reignited the search. Today, a dedicated group of collectors maintains a private online forum where sightings are logged and provenance is debated with the intensity of a Tudor genealogist.

How to Recognise a Yullya Comb

Because the Yullya workshop produced only a limited range, the combs share several consistent traits. Knowing these can help you spot a genuine piece among the many celluloid combs from the same period.

• Material: Yullya favoured a warm, honey-coloured celluloid that darkens slightly with age. The surface often shows a fine, even craquelure—tiny hairline cracks that are a sign of natural ageing, not damage.
• Marks: Look on the back of the comb, near the base of the prongs. Yullya pieces are stamped with a tiny “E.Y.” inside an oval, sometimes so faint that a jeweller’s loupe is needed. Many combs were never stamped at all, which adds to the difficulty.
• Flower motif: The most common design is a five-petalled flower—usually a wild rose or a stylised daisy—formed from marcasite chips set in a silver-toned base. The petals are not symmetrical; Yullya deliberately offset them to give the flower a natural, windblown look.
• Prong construction: As mentioned, the inner edge of each prong is slightly scooped. This is not a manufacturing flaw but a deliberate grip-enhancement. Run your fingernail along the inside of a prong; if you feel a subtle dip, you may have found a Yullya.

If you find a comb that matches these features, handle it with care. The celluloid can become brittle over time, especially if it has been stored in a hot attic or a damp cellar. Do not soak it in water; a dry, soft cloth is all that is needed for cleaning. For deeper grime, a tiny amount of mineral oil on a cotton bud can be applied to the marcasite, but avoid the celluloid itself.

Styling a Yullya Today

Despite their age, Yullya combs are remarkably wearable. The honey-coloured celluloid blends with most hair colours, and the marcasite catches light without competing with other jewellery. I have seen one used to anchor a low chignon at a modern wedding, and another clipped into a side-swept bob for a day at the races. The key is to let the comb be the only statement piece—no large earrings, no chunky necklace. A simple silk blouse or a tweed jacket provides the perfect backdrop.

If you are fortunate enough to own a Yullya comb, store it flat in a padded box away from direct sunlight. Celluloid is flammable, so keep it away from radiators and open flames. And if you ever come across a comb that looks like it might be a Yullya but has no stamp, do not dismiss it. The missing ones are still out there, waiting to be found.

One last detail: the notebook I found that day in Surrey contained a final sketch—a comb with a crescent shape and a cluster of marcasite berries. The note beneath read: “For the bride’s mother, never collected.” I have never seen that design in person. Perhaps it still exists, tucked away in a forgotten drawer, or perhaps it was the one that burned. But every time I walk a vintage fair, I keep my eyes open for a crescent comb with marcasite berries. That is the tale of our missing Yullyas—a story that, for now, remains unfinished.