What a Chief Editor of a Vintage Hair Accessories Blog Actually Does All Day

I started this blog as a place to talk about vintage hair accessories—celluloid combs, Bakelite slides, snoods with their original elastic still intact. What I didn't expect was that I'd end up writing about the writing itself. But here we are, and the question that keeps coming up is simple: what does a chief editor of a niche vintage blog actually do all day, and how can you use those same principles when you're out collecting or just deciding what to wear?

Let me be blunt: a blog about vintage hair accessories is not a diary. It is a curated space, a cabinet of curiosities where each piece—a 1920s celluloid comb, a 1950s grosgrain bow barrette, a 1990s butterfly clip with its spring still intact—deserves a thoughtful introduction. The chief editor's job is to decide which stories get told and which remain quietly in the drawer. That means saying no far more often than yes, and learning to love the edit.

The Curatorial Eye: Choosing What Deserves a Post

Every collector knows the thrill of a carboot find: a tortoiseshell slide with the patina of decades, a Bakelite buckle that catches the light just so. But not every find needs a full feature. The chief editor asks: does this piece have a story that connects to a wider trend, a technique, or a moment in fashion history? Does it teach the reader something about materials or craftsmanship? If the answer is no, the piece stays in the collection but off the page.

Take, for example, the humble hair net. Most people walk past them at vintage fairs. But a 1940s snood in fine silk mesh, with its original elastic still intact, tells a story about wartime utility and the ingenuity of British millinery. That is a story worth telling. A chipped plastic claw clip from 1987? Perhaps not, unless it happens to be a rare early example of a patented mechanism that influenced later designs.

Materials and Techniques: The Backbone of Authority

A chief editor who cannot talk about materials is a chief editor who will lose the trust of her audience. When I write about a Victorian hair comb made from French ivory (a celluloid alternative to real ivory, developed in the 1850s), I need to explain why that matters. Celluloid was revolutionary: lightweight, mouldable, and capable of mimicking expensive natural materials. It also had a dark side—it was highly flammable and prone to a condition called 'celluloid disease', where the material degrades and releases acidic fumes. A responsible blog warns readers about these issues without alarmism.

Similarly, when discussing silver or gold filigree combs from the Edwardian era, the chief editor distinguishes between machine-stamped pieces and hand-finished ones. The difference is visible in the crispness of the detail and the weight of the metal. A hand-finished comb will have slight asymmetries that betray the human hand; a machine-stamped piece will be perfect and soulless. That nuance matters to a collector deciding where to invest her budget.

The Editorial Calendar: Seasons, Trends, and Serendipity

Running a blog without a plan is like hunting for vintage accessories without a list: you come home with a lot of pretty things but nothing that fits your wardrobe. A chief editor works with a loose calendar that respects the rhythms of the year. Late summer, for instance, is the perfect time to talk about lightweight slides and tortoiseshell picks that work with loose, sun-dried hair. I covered this in a previous post, Late Summer Vintage Hair Accessories: A Collector's Guide, which focused on pieces that transition from beach to evening without fuss.

Autumn calls for richer textures: velvet bows, tweed headbands, and horn combs in amber and mahogany. Winter brings the opportunity to discuss festive glitter and the revival of the tiara—not the diamond kind, but the beautifully crafted paste and marcasite pieces that were popular in the 1920s and again in the 1980s. Spring, naturally, is for florals and pastels, and for the annual hunt at the weekend sales. I wrote about that too, in Weekend Sale Hunting: How to Find Vintage Hair Accessories, where I shared my method for staying focused when surrounded by temptation.

The Voice: Warm, Precise, and Unapologetically Niche

A chief editor knows that tone is not decoration; it is the bridge between the writer and the reader. My voice in these pages is the same voice I use when I show a friend a newly acquired piece: enthusiastic but not breathless, detailed but not pedantic, personal but not confessional. I avoid the trap of performing expertise. Instead, I share what I have learned through handling hundreds of pieces, reading decades-old trade journals, and making mistakes that cost me money and taught me lessons.

For example, I once bought a pair of 1930s German hair combs decorated with hand-painted flowers. They were beautiful, but the paint was unstable and began to flake after a few wears. That experience taught me to test painted surfaces with a gentle touch and to avoid storing painted pieces in humid bathrooms. I share that not to show off my knowledge, but to save a reader from the same disappointment.

Practical Care: The Editor's Responsibility

No discussion of vintage hair accessories is complete without honest advice on care. A chief editor does not shy away from the less glamorous aspects of collecting. Celluloid needs to be kept away from heat and direct sunlight. Silver tarnishes and requires gentle polishing with a cloth designed for precious metals. Tortoiseshell (real or simulated) can warp if left in a hot car. Hair elastics lose their stretch; velvet ribbons fray at the edges.

I recommend a simple routine: after each wear, wipe the piece with a soft, dry cloth to remove hair oils and styling residue. Store combs flat in a lined box or wrapped in acid-free tissue. For metal pieces, a silica gel packet in the storage box helps control humidity. And never, ever use household cleaners or boiling water to 'sanitise' a vintage find—you will destroy the finish. Instead, a gentle wipe with a slightly damp cloth followed by immediate drying is sufficient for most non-porous materials.

The Business of Blogging: Yes, Chief Editor

Behind every post is a decision about time, energy, and integrity. The chief editor answers to no one but the readers and her own standards. That means turning down sponsored posts that do not align with the blog's focus, declining to promote fast-fashion replicas of vintage designs, and maintaining the discipline to publish only when there is something worth saying. A blog updated weekly with thin content is less valuable than a blog updated monthly with a thoughtful deep dive.

I also believe in giving credit where it is due. When I feature a piece from a specific maker—say, a 1950s 'Yullya' comb from the brief post-war collaboration between British and French artisans—I name the maker, explain their history, and acknowledge the gaps in my knowledge. No one expects a vintage blog to be a peer-reviewed academic journal, but readers deserve honesty about what is known and what is speculative.

Bringing It All Together: The Reader's Takeaway

So what does all this mean for you, the reader who collects, wears, or simply admires vintage hair accessories? It means that when you read a post on this blog, you are reading the work of an editor who has considered each word, each image, and each recommendation. It means that the advice on care is tested, the historical context is verified, and the enthusiasm is genuine. And it means that you are invited to be part of the conversation—to write in with your own discoveries, to question my conclusions, and to share the joy of finding a perfectly preserved 1920s comb at a charity shop in Shropshire.

The chief editor's job is never done. There is always another box of accessories to sort through, another technique to learn, another reader to inspire. But that is precisely why I love this work. Every piece has a story, and every story deserves an editor who cares enough to tell it right.