Me Flappees - Notes From a Working Stiff
Posted by Ian Barford on 4/06/2007
If I had my way I would be able to appear in every play that I’m in as an unhsaven (sometimes unshowered) barbarian. I must admit that I’ve been fortunate to have been allowed (to varying degrees) to appear this way on several occasions. But, alas, acting often requires physical and cosmetic transformations from one’s own appearance into that of one’s character in a play. Theatre, being a collaborative art, necessitates from time to time a conforming on the actors part to whatever artistic vision is applied by director and designer. Realizing the futility of arguing that Jerry (the role I play in Betrayal) was a man who only occasionally showered and shaved, I was uncertain what kind of look we collaborators would settle upon. Nevertheless, it goes without saying that I showed up for the first rehearsal with a full beard and a slightly questionable odor.
Generally speaking, people were polite about the odor but the beard provoked some skeptical glances from director and designer. Not that I didn’t have a fine full beard mind you, but I was thwarted by the presence of another actor (Tracy Letts) who also showed up with a full beard, though certainly not as fine. The male characters in Betrayal are written as being the same age and in real life Tracy (a male actor) is only one year older than I but in appearance well…let’s just say he reads a lot older. (say 15 to 20 years). I expected this to bode well for my beard as it tends to age my baby face somewhat, but for reasons best ascribed to collaboration, I consented to shave it off. With the older grayer actor keeping his beard, I was required to AGE myself for the play through artificial means.
It was decreed that I would wear gray hair pieces (one on each side of my head) that clip into my own hair and then are glued to my temples with an adhesive called spirit gum. This is not a common practice for your average barbarian. But hey, I’m a gamer. So…I began to wear one set of these hair pieces for the first several scenes of the play and as we moved through the play (back in time) I would then change into another set of hair pieces with slightly less gray in them. The problem, was that the transition from the second set of hair pieces into having no hair pieces (for the last two scenes of the play) took place in a ‘quick change’ back stage and the adhesive was essentially ripped off my flesh so that I would not miss my entrance into the next scene. This made my skin very angry and I would wake up in the morning with swollen red lines on my temples. Thankfully, the collaborators were merciful and I was only required to wear the first set of hair flaps from that point on. My relationship to these artificial hair flaps however, was decidedly vexed.
I found myself referring to these pieces as ‘flaps’ and then eventually - ‘me flappees’ in perhaps a more working class British dialect than the one used in the play. Oh, how I’ve battled with me flappees. For one thing, for the first few weeks of performing the play, I became aware that while wearing me flappees I was unable to turn my head without my whole upper body turning with it. It was as if the adhesive on my temples had glued my entire upper boddy into one, stiff inflexible mass. Secondly, I became convinced that everybody in the first 7 rows could see how artificial me flappees really were and could see the metallic glint of the clips through the artificial gray hairs and all they were thinking was “Wow, look how stiff that dude is…and what are those weird flaps he’s got on his head?” Thankfully, my friend Kaity, who constructed me flappees, knew exactly what she was doing and by all accounts they look as natural as can be. I can even turn my neck and head in a quasi natural way while wearing them. Now, finally, I’ve made friends with me flappees and I’ve become quite expert at their application. Showering and shaving regularly has it’s perks as well.