Goodbye to a K’ Road classic
On Auckland’s Karangahape Road, a beloved costume shop is preparing to close its doors after 42 years of service, leaving a colourful gap in the neighbourhood’s creative fabric.
Owner Catherine Pringle says the decision is driven by health, though the choice comes with a heavy heart.
“I started here at 16, working after school and on weekends,” she says, her voice warm but weary.
“It’s a big job for one woman, and I simply can’t do it like I did decades ago.”
Her store, known as K Road Masquerade to generations of partygoers, performers, and last-minute Halloween shoppers, has been a reliable stage door into the city’s playful alter-ego.
Locals who grew up on the strip remember the treasure trove of wigs, sequins, and capes, while today’s customers come armed with mood boards and hashtags.
Four decades of make-believe
Over four decades, Catherine did it all: ordering stock, keeping the books, pinning hems, and guiding the undecided toward outfits they didn’t know they needed.
“I never said no to anyone,” she laughs, recalling late-night fittings and last-minute panics before parades and balls.
“If someone came in with no idea, they left with a plan, a character, and usually a grin from ear to ear.”
Trends have shape-shifted alongside the city.
In the 1980s, the big sellers were classic clowns, pirates, and flapper dresses; today it’s more about cosplay, viral ideas, and hyper-specific references from streaming hits and memes.
“The internet changed how people get inspired,” Catherine says, “but the core remains the same.”
“When people step through our door, they give themselves permission to be someone else, to drop the mask and try on a different version of themselves.”
A snapshot of Auckland in sequins
The shop mirrored the city’s rhythm.
There were spikes around Halloween and New Year’s Eve, and creative rushes before Auckland Pride, the Farmers Santa Parade, Armageddon Expo, Diwali, and the Lantern Festival.
Back when the Sevens rugby scene was roaring, costumes flew off racks as fans embraced the art of collective absurdity.
“We used to be a team of 20 for the New Year’s rush,” Catherine recalls, “now we manage with three.”
Still, one category never stopped booming: the humble wig.
“We sell more wigs than ever, sometimes 20 a day, because a wig can make a whole look on its own.”
- That time a customer asked for a full Ashley Bloomfield get-up during the pandemic, and it suddenly became the week’s runaway hit.
- A wedding party kitted out as Hobbits after a detour through Hobbiton, complete with hairy feet and rustic capes.
- A group of nurses wanting “something joyful but not cheesy,” who left with colourful 1970s disco suits and a shared playlist of ABBA.
- Countless last-minute school-ball rescues with a crisp tux, a feather boa, and a confident stride out the front door.
From handmade to mass-made
The business also tells a story of changing economics.
In the early years, many costumes came from small workshops in Europe, with sturdy seams, heavy fabrics, and the kind of finish that lasted a lifetime.
Now, mass-produced pieces arrive quicker and cheaper, which widens access but shortens the lifespan of a wardrobe built to be worn and worn again.
“I still have jackets from the 90s that outlive newer stock,” Catherine says, lifting a velvet tailcoat that feels reassuringly weighty.
“People sometimes call what I sell nonsense, but that’s not true,” she adds with a small smile, “I sold joy.”
One last dress-up
The shop will run final sales through Halloween, and then the shutters will come down for good, likely without a successor.
Messages have been flowing in from customers who found confidence, mischief, and connection between the racks of satin and sparkle.
“K’ Road won’t look the same,” one note read, “you gave this street its colour.”
Catherine is proud, tired, and above all grateful.
“You don’t spend 42 years doing something unless it’s about more than sales,” she says.
“It’s about people daring, laughing, and stepping into the kind of night where you forget the day for a little while.”
When the lights finally go dark, Auckland will lose a shop, but it will keep an enduring invitation to play—because the urge to transform, to wink at reality, and to dress like a brighter version of ourselves feels unmistakably, and gloriously, Kiwi.
