Gorgeous George

by John Capouya

  Betty did it herself at first, beginning in Columbus sometime in 1946. Then, toward the end of 1947, George and Betty were in L.A. for a few months and they turned the coloring and styling over to “Frank and Joseph of Hollywood.” Those two gentlemen, who would work with George for more than ten years, also taught Betty how to maintain his blondeur on the road. Surpassing what mere pin curls could do, the hairdressers elevated George’s styling to the “marcel.” This method, invented by Marcel Grateau, a Parisian artiste des cheveux, in the 1870s, used heated irons or tongs to create intricate flowing waves, which were often gathered at the top of the head and held by pins. This created a dramatic upswept look, fit for a queen.

  Almost immediately, bleached blond hair became de rigueur for wrestling heels and they’ve used it ever since to show their villainy. Buddy Rogers, a contemporary of George’s, was one of the first; others include Classy Fred Blassie, Ric Flair, Dusty Rhodes, Johnny Valentine, the Fargo Brothers, Superstar Billy Graham, and in the 1970s and 1980s, Jesse “The Body” Ventura and Hulk Hogan (though the Hulkster was at times a babyface). For the length of George’s career, this gimmick never failed to get attention. In 1948 Time magazine ran a piece on George’s burgeoning stardom, entitled “Catcalls and Curls,” and it described his hair as “an improbable pale blond.” One newspaper account called him “a blond O’Cedar mop with a new marcel.” A cheeky Memphis columnist wrote that “Gorgeous George will flounce in on June 9. The celebrated tragedian plans spurious strife with Daniel McShain, and we, for at least one, will be right glad to see his peroxide plume…” Embedded in the copy were two black-and-white photos. One showed the “celebrated tragedian,” shot from above, revealing the climactic consummation of swirls and curls on the top of his dome. This image was captioned simply “George.” The picture next to it showed a counterpart, with a long mop of white hair falling down from his crown, obscuring his eyes and ears and revealing only a black button nose. That second picture was labeled “Sheep Dog.”

  It wasn’t just the peroxide; George was also hitting his stride as a performing poseur, fleshing out the Gorgeous persona. His rhetoric took on a grandiloquent tone and greater dramatic sweep, while he gave reporters quotable soliloquies on his hair. “I have six different styles,” he announced a couple of years after his first marcel: “The Rococo, the Bird of Paradise, the Gorgeous George Swirl, the Gorgeous George Swagger, the Television Flair and the Frank and Joseph Special. My favorite, of course, is the Frank and Joseph Special. Unfortunately, it can’t be copied and I usually am forced to resort to one of the other five when I’m away from Hollywood.” Later, it was another variation that pleased him the most: The Hellenic look, also by Frank and Joseph. “With Grecian contours.”

  George began scheduling his interviews at women’s beauty parlors in each town he visited. He’d hold forth while getting his hair marcelled under the hot croquignole machines, which was always good for a few column inches. When asked why he didn’t simply go to a barber like other men, the Gorgeous One shuddered delicately. “I’ve always loathed the atmosphere of the barber shop,” he confided. “Barbers are crude and unsympathetic and apt to talk about such uncouth things as boxing and baseball. They have no sense of the esthetic.” The time he logged in salons became another point of pride. “There have been women who have been in the same beauty parlor more than I have,” he acknowledged later in his career. “But I have been touched up in all parts of the world. I have had beauty treatments in Africa, Australia, Hong Kong, Honolulu, Mexico, Canada, and in most cities of the United States.”

  Soon she would stop traveling with George to stay home with the children, but at this point Betty still wanted in on the act. When she accompanied him on the road now, she met with the press also, donning a white smock and working on George’s hair in his hotel room, in front of each city’s sports reporters. They told the press she was his personal hairdresser, Miss Betty, of Frank and Joseph’s. Why tell the truth when a ruse will do? George would treat her like the help, too, ignoring or ordering her around just like a fussy client. Later they’d laugh; the couple had seen the scribes trying to find out how many hotel rooms the two had rented. “Aren’t you his wife?” they’d ask, baffled. “No, I’m Miss Betty.”

  After a Gorgeous win in Long Beach, California, a local writer described him leaving the ring “with a straight-fall victory, and a head of curls awry and writhing like the Medusa’s.” To George and Betty, the Medusa effect was another unanticipated bonus. The soprano fans, especially, were turning out to see his glorious plumage. But what the crowd most lusted for, it turned out, was to see George’s elaborate, pretentious hairstyle ruined. Defeated. Deflated. To see his locks, as the same writer once described them, “resembling a bowl of discouraged corn flakes.” The wrestling showman saw this immediately, and made the great undoing a mandatory part of the act. “The first thing you had to do when you locked horns with him,” remembered Ted Lewin, “was mess up his hair. You just grabbed it, roughed it up with your hands. Then he’d leap up and stamp his feet and scream—he’d raise hell for the next twenty minutes. You didn’t have to do anything, just go back and stand in the corner while he raised hell. And the audience went absolutely crazy.”

  George also used this routine defilement to showcase his sensitive nature, the delicate vulnerability that he increasingly emphasized to the public. In an interview with Pan, the magazine of the Pan Pacific Auditorium, a boxing and wrestling venue in L.A., George addressed the difficulties—the trauma—brought on by his newfound fabulousness. “Since I’ve gone blond,” he complained “the other wrestlers all call me light-headed and taunt me more than ever. They can’t help being jealous, but must they be so rude?” As he talked, the magazine relayed, “Matdom’s No. 1 pin-up boy [was] running a comb through his honey-hued tresses.” George further explained that it was the ribald remarks of his opponents that provoked his tantrums and ring violence. He’d abide by the rules, he professed, if “the boys only wouldn’t be so rough and muss up my hair!” Through the vehicle of his bleached blond hair, Gorgeous George exposed his wounded outer child. And a complicated child it was.

  That hair was George’s totem, the symbol of his potency. Losing it dramatically, fifteen years and thousands of treatments after he first went blond, meant the end of his career. In one unexpected place, though, George’s identifier is still extant. At his home in Franklin Square on Long Island, wrestling expert and collector John Pantozzi keeps a lock of Gorgeous hair. George’s second wife, Cherie, sold it to him (he can’t remember for how much), along with some photographs and a brooch in the 1990s. He also offered her $1,500 for one of George’s robes, but she turned it down. Cherie sent the snipped-off bleached blond hair to Pantozzi in a rectangular cardboard box, the kind necklaces come in, on some cotton padding. Today it rests, like a jewel, under a glass case.

  In the middle of 1946 the Wagner family and modest entourage—consisting of one nanny and one dog—piled in the trailer for a Texas tour. They saw Poppa Wagner and Eulah, and George’s youngest brother, Buddy, squired Pat around for a while and even asked her to marry him. He was good-looking, a younger, trimmer version of George, but he was also unemployed. Whatever the reasons, Pat declined. George wrestled a series of action-packed matches in Houston, Dallas, and Galveston with his childhood friend Sterling “Dizzy” Davis. He was also sporting gaudier-than-usual kimonos in the ring, so the two of them came up with a series of “Robe vs. Robe” matches, in which the loser would have to surrender his vestment immediately after the final fall. Dizzy announced that he would set George’s robe on fire then and there, while George thought greater humiliation would lie in having his vanquished opponent’s robe altered by his Hollywood tailors and added to his sartorial harem. The matches were big draws and good paydays, with each man winning in turn, yet somehow no one’s robes were actually destroyed in the public eye.

  On this swing George added another member to his entourage, unveiling the next stage in the evolution of th
e Gorgeous act. By adding this new personage, George (and this was his idea, not Betty’s) opened up more dramatic possibilities for stunts, brawls, folderol, and all manner of ring nonsense. Tonally, this human gimmick took the mock pomposity of his performance to a higher level, and with it the masterwork was nearly complete. A Houston Chronicle headline put fans on notice, declaring that GORGEOUS GEORGE CARRIES VALET ON WRESTLING JAUNTS. George would have a second or attendant with him, it was explained, who was charged with the care of his eighty-eight fabulous robes, which the proud owner had insured for $10,000. This first valet was Thomas Ross, who may have been another of George’s Houston pals. “My man Thomas,” it was immediately remarked, bore a striking resemblance to Thomas E. Dewey, the Republican governor of New York who famously would not defeat Harry Truman in the 1948 presidential election. He had the same dark, slightly wavy hair and mustache and bushy eyebrows that angled sharply upward—the valet and the politician certainly resembled each other as much as, say, George and the sheepdog.

  Within six months, though, George and Betty swung through Texas again and this time the wrestler sought out Jacob Brown, his boyhood friend from Avenue Q. Jake, immediately dubbed “my man Jefferies,” was the best-known gentleman’s gentleman and the one who stayed in service the longest, from 1947 to 1952. Jake had served two and a half years with the 30th Air Service Squadron in the Western Pacific before being discharged as Corporal Brown, with $300 in mustering-out pay in his pocket. He was working in a Houston department store when George rescued him; Jake and his wife, Beulah, promptly bought a trailer like George and Betty’s and followed those two back to Santa Monica, where they lived near their friends and employers. Betty and Jake, George’s better halves or his enabling counterparts, bonded instantly. For some reason she always called him by his stage name, or her abbreviation of it; to her, he was Jeff or “my Jeff.”

  The valet’s role would be embellished over the years, but the essentials were there from the start. In one of their early matches together, when George took on Enrique Torres at the Auditorium in Houston, the Gorgeous One was introduced with great fanfare over the PA system. First to appear, though, at the top of one aisle, was Jefferies, dressed formally in gray pin-striped trousers and a gray vest under a long-tailed black morning coat. He also wore a thin black mustache. As he ankled deliberately to the ring the valet bore a large gilded box in front of him on a matching tray. Once inside the ropes, he opened the box with great ceremony, removed a small whisk broom, then stood at the ready. A loud march, played on a scratchy phonograph record, began to blare through the speakers, and George, gloriously blond and berobed, strutted in. At least once he experimented with a cane, twirling it on the way down the aisle, then surrendering it to the valet, but that prop soon went the way of the blue hair.

  Now came the ever-so-deliberate folding of the robe, with Jefferies standing just inside the ropes, arms outstretched and his torso inclined forward from the waist to receive it. When he did, the valet would make an obsequious bow or three, as if to thank the overseer for the privilege of serving him. The snobbish presumption of George having an underling drew howls of derision from the 3,500 or so fans. Then the match got under way and Jefferies positioned himself just outside the ring and directly facing George, never taking his eyes off him to acknowledge the crowd or any other distraction. Like Judy the dog, he showed his devotion, remaining focused—fixated—on George the master.

  When the gown came off, George’s flowing blond mane now gave him the appearance of a rare and wild animal. Indeed, one writer, overflowing with alliterative ardor, called him the Percheron of Pulchritude. As he grappled with Torres, his elaborate hairdo naturally toppled into ruin, much to the delight of the Houston fans. Between falls Jefferies served George tea from a silver tea set or merely primped his hair, holding up a large silver-framed mirror afterward so George could approve these repairs. Jake, subtly snooty, was a master of the deadpan, underplaying in perfect complement to George’s histrionics. A less powerful, and less boastful, athlete than the rest of the Harrisburg gang, he found his most authentic role as George’s man in service. Though neither Jake nor Jefferies was a fighter, at times the valet was nonetheless drawn into the uncouth.

  In Atchison, Kansas, the heel Wild Red Berry got to play babyface for one night. The squat, five-foot-eight former boxer hailed from Pittsburg, Kansas, which made him the local favorite, and George the invading hellion. After a few action-packed falls, Berry won, pinning George with his signature move, the Gilligan Twist. Gorgeous and Jefferies sulked in their corner for a bit as the verdict was pronounced, then turned as one and rushed at Berry, knocking the referee to the mat as they charged. This unsanctioned tag team pummeled Berry as he covered up in his corner, George whaling away with his fists and Jefferies windmilling the huge mirror with both hands. Berry’s camp and a few incensed mat addicts rushed the ring, coming to their champion’s aid, and the melee was on.

  That set up the sold-out rematch. George wasn’t concerned about Berry or his own safety, he let it be known, but he was upset at the mauling his manservant had received. “Jefferies is the only person capable of giving me a decent wave set and I just dare any of these bruisers to harm a hair on his head,” he threatened, adding that he considered the Atchison citizenry “an uncouth band of peasants.”

  George was now spending considerably more time entertaining and much less actually wrestling. Yet, he noted thoughtfully, the showbiz stuff was making him stand out more and more from the other boys, who were looking increasingly drab in comparison. No one, least of all the promoters, was complaining about the changing ratio of posturing to spine bending, the ascendancy of gimmicks over action. From here on, George would always have a valet with him. Through shrewd hiring and astute tutoring, they all displayed a deft dramatic touch. The essential absurdity of their role helped enormously. The valets played scaredy-cats, who usually ran away from any possible altercation, so seeing them buffeted by enraged opponents was part of the fun. As Jefferies, Jake Brown took innumerable hits to the noggin with the tray he bore to the ring, his own totem used against him to the delight of the rowdy crowds. Fussily polite, the gentleman’s gentlemen served in a rude realm, trying to impose order where there was none—and furthermore, where no one desired any. In vain they whisked, neatened, and freshened, oblivious amid the chaos. The hapless valets portrayed dignity in the den of indignity; hence the hilarity.

  George kept them on for practical as well as theatrical reasons. Though he certainly did not have anything like eighty-eight robes, he did have trunks full of wardrobe, which needed maintaining. Betty taught the valets how to press the finery and touch up George’s tinted locks. As the master got more work, that meant more driving, something he was relieved to turn over to his employees. He needed the help, and in truth, he craved the companionship; he didn’t do well on his own. Bookings were picking up and he now commanded a bigger slice of the gate receipts, maybe 10 percent. Later, when George was at the height of his popularity, he would demand that the promoters pay his valets themselves; the majordomos got paid the same as the boys working on the undercard.

  Other wrestlers, including Lord Lansdowne, had used valets, seconds, and managers before. George co-opted and improved on that riff, making it his own. Similarly, Dizzy Davis had been known as Gardenia Davis at one point, when he threw those flowers to the fans. He was working in Mexico then, and when George asked his permission to try the flower gimmick in the United States, he said, “Sure, go ahead. But it’ll never work in the States.” George would later disprove that, with orchids. Appropriation is how wrestling, and much of art and entertainment, evolves. (One man George inspired, Bob Dylan, was an especially egregious borrower, beginning with his early Woody Guthrie impersonation or homage, his early patterning after Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, and his name, which he took from Dylan Thomas.) George and Betty almost certainly took ideas from and were swayed by others; some of this was conscious, and some may not have been. Then they put thei
r own imprimatur on their friends’ and competitors’ best moves, creating an original work. Then, after the wrestler synthesized all these hooks and gimmicks, he put them across in performance like no one else, before or since.

  Chapter 12

  THE WRESTLING SET

  “So, Sweetie, what do you think?”

  It was evening and George was standing on the terrace of a three-story white stucco house in Windsor Hills, the Los Angeles neighborhood just north of Inglewood. Betty was seated in one of the rattan patio chairs, facing him. Beyond George she could see the lights of the city, all the way to Santa Monica, and then on to the Pacific. On his head her husband wore his now-habitual tam, a knit beret that covered his long blond curls when he wasn’t working, or having his hair done at the beauty parlor. George had on a red Hawaiian shirt over his slacks, and its boxy drape suited his big-chested frame, she thought approvingly. He’d taken to wearing aloha shirts before the war when they lived in Honolulu and now they were in style Stateside after men serving in the Pacific theater brought them home. Shortages of fabric and dye over with, men’s clothes were longer and looser, and brighter shades were favored—anything but khaki or army green. When George got more dressed up, he was partial to the sharkskin suits and gaudy hand-painted ties that were also in postwar vogue. Some had palm trees painted on them; others, desert landscapes or New York skyscrapers. George especially liked the ones with flowers.