She came into the ring not with a pedigree but with peroxide and a dream. Roxy Astor—real name Tracee Meltzer, born Tracee Leigh Phelps—was never supposed to become a pop culture artifact, a wrestling cult icon, or a red-headed thunderstorm in spandex and glitter. But life doesn’t hand out blueprints in Hollywood, and in the late ’80s, it handed her a GLOW audition instead.
Born in Auburn, Washington, where the rain has its own pulse and people nurse their coffee like it’s medicine, Tracee was the kind of girl who didn’t quite fit. A student of fashion illustration, she traded sketchpads for scissors and became a hairdresser. Then came the breakup. The kind that turns your stomach sour and your soul itchy. She moved to California chasing the kind of reinvention that only palm trees and broken dreams can offer.
Then she saw the banner: “Do You Want to Be a GLOW Girl?”
Hell yes, she did.
Becoming Roxy Astor
No acting experience? No problem. She showed up to the audition like a biker queen with sass to spare—headshots, leather, and an attitude that said, “I don’t belong, but I’m not leaving.” She wasn’t from Park Avenue, hadn’t even been to New York, but GLOW painted her as a red-headed socialite. Irony’s a cruel bastard sometimes. She dyed her blonde locks and stepped into the role of Roxy Astor—half of the Park Avenue Knockouts tag team with Tiffany Mellon, a duo that made sequins look dangerous.
Behind the scenes, she was the secret weapon in the dressing room too—dyeing hair, tightening ponytails, making sure no one looked like yesterday’s hangover. Roxy wasn’t just wrestling personas; she was manufacturing illusions in real time.
GLOW and Afterglow
GLOW was everything the Reagan era wasn’t supposed to be—loud, unhinged, woman-driven, and soaked in theatrical violence. It made WWF look like a Sunday sermon. But it didn’t last. Nothing beautiful ever does. The show got axed before it could land properly in the cultural bloodstream. One moment you’re taping four episodes in a day, the next you’re packing your boots in a duffel bag and wondering if that was all just a fever dream.
Years later, in 2012, the documentary GLOW: The Story of the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling pulled the rust off the legend. Roxy returned—now a little older, a little wiser, but still with that punch-in-the-gut charisma. She wasn’t done. GLOW may have died on camera, but Roxy dragged its carcass back on stage.
She launched the AfterGLOW Fan Party—a reunion, a catharsis, and a wild, unapologetic middle finger to time. It wasn’t nostalgia; it was unfinished business. A night where Godiva, Jailbait, Little Egypt, and others stepped back into the light, back into the fever dream, where characters and real people blurred and bled into one another.
The Stage Is a Ring Too
She wasn’t content with just fan parties. In 2018, Roxy created AfterGLOW: The 80s Musical Experience, a stage show that cracked open the ribcage of GLOW’s legacy and let the stories spill out. It was raw, funny, tragic—like watching a clown cry through pancake makeup. A tribute, a confession, a group therapy session set to synth pop. It was nominated for eight Broadway World Awards. Because of course it was. Roxy never aimed low.
Then came Matilda the Hun: The Raw Meat, a play soaked in memory and the sour smell of hospital rooms. It chronicled her bond with Deanna Booher—Matilda—during the final stretch of her life. It wasn’t just a show. It was a eulogy that threw punches. Produced at the Zephyr Theatre, it landed ten nominations, earning awards for music, sound, and scenic design. It was as loud as it was tender. Like Roxy.
Still Throwing Punches
Roxy Astor, 30 years removed from the original ring lights, is still fighting—not opponents, but irrelevance. In April 2025, she co-created Afterglow Women’s Wrestling with Steven Van Beckum, reviving the past with enough electricity to spark a new future. A test run launched in Michigan. The pilot? Set to shoot in Las Vegas, where GLOW was first birthed in 1985. The circle closes, maybe.
Outside the Ring
She raised three kids, designed children’s clothes that hung in Fred Segal, and dated a former U.S. marshal turned kickboxing champion named Dan Magnus—because of course she did. Her daughter, Kayla, carried the wrestling torch under names like Juvi Hall and Britney Astor.
Tracee Meltzer—Roxy—isn’t just living in the past. She’s rewriting it. She doesn’t just talk about GLOW; she builds empires from its bones. Every appearance, every workshop, every musical, is her way of saying, “We were here. We mattered. And we’re still throwing damn punches.”
She’s not a relic. She’s a wildfire that refuses to go out, flickering red under the Vegas neon. The crowd may have gone home. The ropes may sag. But Roxy Astor? She’s still lacing up.