Bestriding the rehearsal room like a pomaded colossus, he sang and danced to Duncan Sheik’s electronic music, slicing and stabbing as Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa’s book demands.

They were everywhere—the dark glasses, the ironed pants, the pomaded hair.

But everybody knew what “Soaphead” meant—the tight, curly hair that took on and held a sheen and wave when pomaded with soap lather.