Philip Kingsley, celebrity trichologist – obituary

Although trichologists are not trained medics, Kingsley’s treatments were underpinned by science and by the study of thousands of blood tests. While he admitted to having once tried unsuccessfully to reproduce unusual hair growth reported in poultry farmers by distilling a shampoo from the chemicals in chicken droppings, he had a fine understanding of the role of nutrition, microbiology and psychology in hair’s well-being.

Above all he gained the confidence of his patients with a gentle charm that promoted intimacy, and by not belittling their problems. He took them seriously, even if he did not promise miracles. (Moreover, he came to realise that the scalp was often an early indicator of genuine illness.)

For years, one client insisted on returning to Kingsley and having him chant “grow, grow, grow!” over his bald pate on the basis that Kingsley was “the hair god”. At last, the trichologist felt compelled to advise that it was hopeless to expect fuzz to appear on a billiard ball. But he could slow down hair loss caused by other factors.

Hair is formed from protein, and crash diets that excluded it were a concern that Kingsley saw increasingly at the end of his career. He often prescribed red meat, in part for iron consumption, and counselled clients not to eat too much fish, as that can contain high levels of mercury.

High levels of stress were another more recent cause of trouble and, before that, problems caused by the effects on hormones of the contraceptive pill. Earlier on, women in particular suffered from the harsh substances used to colour and control hair, especially after the 1950s as hats fell out of favour.

One victim of that was arguably Kingsley’s best-known client, Audrey Hepburn. While filming Robin and Marian with Sean Connery in 1976, she found that her hair looked flat and dry on camera because of all the styling products applied on set. She booked an appointment with Kingsley under her married name of Dotti, and it was only after some minutes that he ventured to remark that she bore a strong resemblance to the Hollywood star. Kingsley decided that she needed a “pre-shampoo masque”, which he mixed for her in his laboratory. (He initially made all his products himself in a cooker in his garage.) For the rest of her life, he would post pots of the mixture to her in Switzerland.

She was so delighted with the results that she ordered hand-made shoes for all the treatment girls on his staff, since they were on their feet all day. Kingsley eventually called the fluid “Elasticizer” and a bottle of it is now said to sell somewhere in the world every two minutes.

At first, the formula needed to have water added to it at home by the customer. When one of Kingsley’s well-heeled American clients heard this, she shrieked at him, in a tone of astonishment heard around the clinic: “What? You expect me to cook?” But, in the end, she did.

Philip Kingsley was born on June 4 1930 in Bethnal Green. His father was a jobbing tailor and his mother sewed buttonholes. The family was Jewish but celebrated Christmas. Yet they were so poor that the only present that Philip and his four siblings would receive was a tangerine.

In later life he would make up for this by observing the feast almost to excess, adorning every inch of his home with baubles, reindeer and glitter. All those who worked for him were treated to a party in a private room at Scott’s, the Mayfair restaurant. This was a most characteristic act of generosity, and his treatment of his employees was reflected in the fact that some stayed with him for almost 50 years.

When air travel was less common and more glamorous, he would lovingly wrap as presents for his children miniature pots of jam and toothbrushes collected from hotels and flights.

He left school at 14 and went to work for his uncle, a hairdresser, in the East End. He soon realised that although he knew only a little about hair, that was more than his colleagues knew, and after taking a course at the Institute of Trichology he opened his first clinic in Marylebone in 1957.

Kingsley moved his premises to Mayfair a decade later. He took the decision with some trepidation, as the area seemed so exclusive, but it greatly increased his clientele. At first, however, with typical acumen, he booked all his appointments at the same time to give the impression of being in demand.

He himself took to Mayfair living, playing football in Hyde Park for a team run by Doug Hayward, the tailor, which also featured Bobby Moore. Kingsley and his friends, who nicknamed Kingsley “Little Lord Follicle” on account of his not extravagant height, would retire to the Queen’s Elm pub for a pint afterwards.

More recently, he had lunched once a month with his fellow “Mayfair Orphans”, local residents now without parents, among them Sir Michael Caine, the photographer Terry O’Neill and Johnny Gold, the nightclub owner. He opened a clinic on Fifth Avenue in New York in 1977, and his American friends came to include Norman Mailer.

Although he was no name-dropper, Kingsley’s clients included Cate Blanchett, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kate Winslet, Ivana Trump, Jane Fonda, Jeanette Winterson and Victoria Beckham, as well as several members of the Royal family. Latterly, he had tripled his turnover by concentrating on selling products which increased hair volume for women, but it was not only they who sought his services.

Sir Mick Jagger was reputed to be a customer, while in the 1970s many actors were sent to him from the National Theatre by Sir Laurence Olivier. When the great actor was once gravely ill in hospital in Brighton, he summoned Kingsley at short notice to his bedside to make him look his best. The trichologist, who had a house nearby, turned up with his lamps and steamers crammed into his Alfa Romeo.

He also worked with the Mount Sinai hospital in New York, and had a particular interest in developing treatments for those whose hair had been affected by chemotherapy and radiotherapy.

The theatre was one of Kingsley’s passions, and this extended to investing as an “angel” in productions. Aside from A Chorus Line, he had little luck with shows and had a room at home decorated with the posters from his flops. His other great enthusiasm was for Tottenham Hotspur and he rarely missed an opportunity to watch them play.

He stayed fit into his seventies by performing RAF exercises every morning – press-ups with a hand-clap in between. He shampooed daily and retained a full head of hair all his life.

He married first, in 1949, Betty Kaye, with whom he had two daughters. The marriage was dissolved in 1971, and in 1981 he married Joan Maizner, with whom he also had two daughters. She and his children survive him.

Philip Kingsley, born June 4 1930, died September 3 2016