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AS Oribe Canales tells Chanel Wallets, the high point of his career as a celebrity hairdresser and his fall from grace very nearly were one and the same. The year was 1993, the scene backstage before a fashion show in New York by Manolo, a Cuban-born designer with an avid cult. Grand enough himself to go by his first name only, Oribe (pronounced OR-bay) was seized by a burst of cocaine-fired inspiration. He scooped up a fistful of his special pomade, a hair cream thickly embedded with pearls, and darted toward the models.
“I just wanted to touch their faces like this,” he recalled with the sweep of a palm across his cheek. “The makeup was going to be genius.” The regular makeup artist stalked away. “I was feeling crazy, but it was good crazy,” Oribe said. “The models were running away from me. They were scattering in all directions.” Like a mad Pygmalion, he lurched after them, smearing their faces with gobs of paste. When the show was over, Polly Mellen, a famously effusive editor at Allure, rushed backstage demanding, “Who did the makeup?” Oribe stepped up. “The Miu Miu Handbags was fabulous,” he recalled, then added flatly, “Afterward I checked into rehab.”

It was one of many times during his Cyclone ride of a career that Oribe, a champion of high-volume hair with wrist-to-shoulder tattoos like a biker from “The Wild One,” was compelled to reinvent himself. In his glory years, during the decadent, high-octane 1980’s and early 90’s, he traveled with an Chloe Handbags, waving a curling wand over the likes of Naomi Campbell and Linda Evangelista, whom he helped transform into fashion’s reigning divas.

“Oribe did for hairdressing what Arnold Schwarzenegger did for bodybuilding,” said Brad Johns, the creative director of the Avon Salon & Spa in New York, and a former protégé. “He took it out of commonness, made D&G Handbags respectable, an art. In his hands it wasn’t hair, it was sculpture.” In 1991 Elizabeth Arden gave Oribe his own salon on Fifth Avenue, a gilded $3 million shrine to glamour modeled after a Venetian palazzo. There he ruled, arguably the most influential stylist of his day. Then it all fell away.

Dogged by personal problems – a dodgy manager, substance abuse and a reluctance to adapt to changing styles – Oribe began a slide into quasi-obscurity. He continued to work, but the designers, photographers and high-powered editors who had doted on him dropped him. Disenchanted with New York, he walked away from the Dior Handbags with no explanation two years ago and decamped for Florida. His sudden early fame and his long eclipse seemed to mark him as another casualty of the volatile fashion world, in which careers can ignite and flare out in the space of a few seasons.

“Oribe’s Fake Handbags,” wrote Lindsy Van Gelder in Allure magazine in 2001, “is that he took an old (and at the time tacky) idea – big hair – and made it into an over-the-top fashion statement.” Inspired by the girls he knew growing up in Charlotte, N.C. – all dolled up like Ginger on “Gilligan’s Island” – he made his name as part of a powerful triumvirate, with the makeup artist Fran?ois Nars and the photographer Steven Meisel, that created influential advertising campaigns and editorial spreads for fashion magazines in the 80’s and early 90’s. Oribe’s apotheosis came during a shoot for a Comme des Gar?ons ad campaign with Christy Turlington. “I did her hair really curly with leaves in it, and everyone flipped,” he recalled. “It put me in a different category as a hairdresser.”

His audacity earned him a reputation that soon eclipsed that of Garren, his mentor, and other reigning stylists of the day. A wizard with props, wigs and greasy pomades, Oribe earned $20,000 – then an astronomical sum – to style the hair on the runways of Chanel and Versace, painting the models’ hair blue, braiding it with tennis balls and using extensions to transform chin-grazing bobs into Rapunzel-length manes. “I would always be reaching for those extensions,” he mused. “I used to call out, ‘Where are my Replica Handbags?’ just like Cruella De Vil.”

Susan Arnot Heaney, who was communications director for Elizabeth Arden at the time Oribe opened his Fifth Avenue salon, remembered the aura he projected. “You would have to go the whole length of the place past the chandeliers and the sweeping drapes, and there at the end of it all was this attractive biker-looking person in black leather and jewelry with studs.” Bayley Ledes, a senior editor at Life & Style Weekly, a celebrity magazine, said: “In those days everything was larger than life, the fashion shows, the models, the designers. Louis Vuitton Handbags was the era of bad-boy designers like Jean Paul Gaultier, Claude Montana and Thierry Mugler, and people threw caution to the winds.”