“Exactly. If an actor wants a wig of some special nature, we do our best to please him. We only make the wigs to order.”
“Then you will probably have a record of this one.”
The manager turned the wig over in his hands, glanced carefully at the inside, felt of the weight and texture, then pressed a button at the side of his desk. A boy came and departed with a message.
“It may be difficult. This wig is not new. In fact, I would say it was turned out about two years ago.”
“A long time. But still—”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
A bespectacled old man shuffled into the office at that moment, in response to the manager’s summons, and stood waiting in front of the desk.
“Kauffman, here,” said the manager, “is our expert. What he doesn’t know about wigs isn’t worth knowing.” Then, turning to the old man, he handed him the red wig. “Remember it, Kauffman?”
The old man looked at it doubtfully. Then he gazed at the ceiling.
“Red wig … red wig …” he muttered.
“About two years old, isn’t it?” prompted the manager.
“Not quite. Year’n a half, I’d say. Looks like a comedy character type. Wait’ll I think. There ain’t been so many of our customers playin’ that kind of a part inside a year and a half. Let’s see. Let’s see.” The old man paced up and down the office, muttering names under his breath. Suddenly, he stopped, snapping his fingers.