April 25, 1963, Fairfield Halls in Croydon, south London. I was 13 years old and at a Beatles concert. At the end of the show everyone rushed round to the stage door, hoping for a glimpse of the boys. They came out and we screamed; they waved to us, we screamed louder; and when they got into the car and pulled out of the gates, we were on it like dogs.
I was on the bonnet, others were on the roof. I could see them in the car — they looked scared — and it took the police to get us off. The moment left me in tears, and I didn’t know why. It could have been teenage angst, or hormones, or adrenaline, but in my heart I felt a freedom I’d never felt before. It was at that moment I knew I didn’t want a normal life. I didn’t know how to change it, but I didn’t want to live the life of my parents.
I left school in June 1965 at 15 and started training as a hairdresser at Evelyn Paget’s College in Bromley, where I grew up, in July. When I finished I was sent to work at Evelyn Paget’s Beckenham branch. I worked there on and off for a few years.
I returned to Evelyn Paget’s properly when I was 21 and had been there a while when I was asked to help out with a client: Mrs. Jones, a woman about my mum’s age who wore a tweed skirt with sensible shoes and a cardigan. Like most other customers, she started talking about her family the moment I got started.
“My David is such an artistic boy,” she said. “He’s always been that way. Plays guitar and piano. He doesn’t have a lot of time to see me but I’m so proud of him.” She rattled on as I smiled and nodded. “He was in the Top Ten, you know.”
“Really?” I asked. “What was the song?”
“‘Space Oddity.’”
“Are we talking about David Bowie?”
“Yes. I’m his mum.”
I’d heard of David Bowie from kids in the pub. He was a musician who played at the Three Tuns, a local pub on Beckenham high street. He had an arty thing going on and it seemed a bit niche to me. I knew “Space Oddity” was a hit, but that had been over a year ago. A one-hit wonder, maybe?
“My David is such an artistic boy.”
“I love it,” she said when I showed her the back of her head with a hand mirror. “I’ll come to you next week.”
Mrs Jones returned regularly. One day in 1971, she arrived with a girl in tow.
“I’d like to introduce you to my daughter-in-law, Angie.”
Angie was tall and thin with narrow blue eyes and a generous smile, her skin almost translucent. She wore black jeans and a furry jacket — you never saw clothes like that in Beckenham. She was cool and confident, and I’d never met anyone like her. She was about the same age as me — I was 22 — but seemed light-years more sophisticated. I felt a little nervous as I asked her what she’d like me to do with her hair.
“Something outrageous.” A sweet smile. “How about some color?”
Angie was eager to talk too, and also told me about David and his band, the Spiders from Mars. She helped them to dress for their shows, and she and David ran around London, hanging out in clubs and coming home at all hours. Her life sounded unbelievably exciting.
I created short stripes of bright pink, soft blue and frosty silver in Angie’s hair. She loved it, gave me a big tip and said she’d be back. It was a couple of months before she was, looking to get a perm done, but we didn’t have any space. I followed her out of the door quietly. Nicking clients was forbidden — but I didn’t want to lose her.
“Hey, Angie,” I called softly. “I can come to your house tonight if you like, and give you a perm?” Her eyes lit up and she told me her address. That evening I drove up to her house: Haddon Hall, an old mansion in Beckenham.
I knew “Space Oddity” was a hit, but that had been over a year ago. A one-hit wonder, maybe?
Haddon Hall was extraordinary. It had a massive entrance hall with tall stained-glass windows and a sweeping Hollywood-style staircase. In the huge midnight-blue living room, David sat in the bay window, flicking through a magazine, wearing a soft velvet shirt with rolled-up sleeves and fitted trousers. He was 24 years old, his skin as white as Angie’s, his face finely boned. Long blond hair spilled over his shoulders, casting shadows over his face and eyes.
Angie had changed her mind about the perm. I was relieved — I’m not sure it would have worked on her. Instead, we chatted about style, fashion and music — well, they did, while I listened and agreed with everything they said. I hadn’t heard of Lou Reed or the Velvet Underground or Iggy Pop.
But one thing I could do was hair. David showed me a photograph in a magazine of a model with a red spiky hairdo. It took two evenings but when we were done, his hair stood up like a brush on his head, a brilliant red hue. He looked amazing. Angie screamed and David danced round the room, posing, shaking his head, loving it.
I started spending more time at Haddon Hall. I met David’s band, the drummer Woody Woodmansey and the bass player Trevor Bolder, and the gorgeous guitarist Mick Ronson. Other friends hung around — drinking and smoking and talking long into the night — and I longed to look like I belonged with this effortless crowd.
Angie started calling whenever David needed a touch-up or a trim and I also started helping with costumes for the band’s upcoming London shows. Soon I was navigating two lives — one normal and boring, the other full of possibility. I dreamed of dropping everything to join the band full-time.
David Bowie showed me a photograph in a magazine of a model with a red spiky hairdo. It took two evenings, but when we were done, his hair stood up like a brush on his head, a brilliant red hue.
One day Angie showed me the cover of the next album: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I gasped. My haircut was on the album cover! The color wasn’t right, and it wasn’t really standing up, but it still looked great. David looked out of this world. I was knocked out that my haircut was on the cover.
The more time I spent with them both, the more I learned about David and Angie’s relationship. One afternoon I went round to do Angie’s hair ahead of a special date — with Mickey Finn, a percussionist for T. Rex. She greeted me in her dressing gown then slipped off the robe, got into the bath and continued chatting.
“It’s OK,” she said, ” David knows all about Mickey. We have an open marriage; we both have fun. Life is too boring to be with just one person.”
Not long afterwards, I witnessed the other side of this unconventional arrangement, when David asked if I could come over and do his hair. He greeted me with a big grin, holding my shoulders as he kissed me on both cheeks.
“You look nice,” he said, and I asked where Angie was. “Oh, she’s off being her usual fabulous self,” he laughed. “I don’t really want my hair cut. I wanted to see you. Let’s go up to town and have dinner.”
I was flattered he wanted to spend time with me, but nervous too. Usually when I was with David and Angie it was them carrying the conversation. What would I say if David talked about Rimbaud, or Nietzsche? But before I knew it his arm was around my waist and we were on our way to London.
“I don’t really want my hair cut. I wanted to see you. Let’s go up to town and have dinner.”
We talked about Angie. “I don’t know what I’d do without her, she’s so outrageous and brave. Not a jealous bone in her body,” he said, squeezing my knee under the table.
On the way back I thought about what was coming up. I wanted a job with him far more than a night in bed, but leaving gracefully felt complicated. We pulled into the driveway and he turned to me.
“Well, Suzi, are you coming in?”
I could have gone home, but part of me was curious. I wasn’t that attracted to him, but as he held my eyes the distance between us closed and suddenly he was kissing me. It was a rush and before I knew what I was doing I was in his bedroom. I let my inhibitions go as he undressed me.
When it was over he said he’d have fun telling Angie all about it. I froze.
“She’ll understand,” he said, seeing my reaction. “She expects it — we have an understanding. It’d be worse if I didn’t tell her.” He seemed a little impatient with me now, and a bit amused. “Don’t be silly. I thought you understood.”
If I was going to take part in this new world with its new permissive trends, I had to squash my grey suburban ideas and embrace it.
Stardust Turn
A couple of days went by before Angie called to talk about the next gig. She didn’t say a word about my night with David. I was grateful. I didn’t want to come on like a groupie; I wanted a full-time job.
On July 26, 1972, Angie told me to go up to London to speak to David’s manager, Tony Defries, about wages and a proper contract. It was happening — I could hardly believe it. I worked out my week’s notice under the incredulous eyes of my colleagues at Evelyn Paget, then walked out for good. Life was about to change: I was going on the road with a rock’n’roll band.
Things moved at lightning speed. Ziggy Stardust was released in June 1972. By August, after a huge show at the Rainbow Theatre in Finsbury Park, north London, we were starting a major tour of the UK. Bristol, Bournemouth, Doncaster: every night the band delivered without fail.
Show nights were hectic and fueled by adrenaline. I started out as the hairdresser, but soon I was in charge of David’s costume changes and would wait for him at the side of the stage with a lit cigarette and a glass of wine. While he smoked, he’d ask how the sound was and what the fans were saying.
I also helped with make-up, running errands and more unconventional assignments. Sometimes David told me which girl he fancied in the front row. After the show ended, I’d look out for her, and if she wanted to come backstage I made sure she got there.
One evening, David spotted an adorable-looking boy with an angelic face and long dark curly hair who couldn’t take his eyes off him. I’m not sure how old he was. David casually asked me about him during a costume change.
“I want to meet him after the show. Get him in the car for me, Suzi.”
When I told the boy David wanted to meet him, he was thrilled. “Meet me at the stage door when the encore starts,” I said.
As the encore began, I saw the boy sneaking his way back towards the stage door. I guessed he’d made up his mind. Mick, Woody and Trevor came flying out the stage door and jumped in the front of the limo with the driver. I wondered why — there was just me and this scared-looking kid in the back. I was about to say something when David came rushing out of the door with Stuey George, David’s minder, close behind him.
“I want to meet him after the show. Get him in the car for me, Suzi.”
The boy beside me was shaking. I could feel it. David threw himself into the car and without a word launched himself at the boy. I could see David pushing his tongue down the boy’s throat and his hand trying to open his trousers, all the while telling him what they’ll be doing back at the hotel. I was speechless. Stuey just sat and looked out of the window.
Mick asked me if I was all right and extended his hand through the window to hold mine as David and the boy wrestled around with each other right next to me. Now I knew why none of them sat at the back. I sat forward, trying not to look, but it was right in front of me. I heard a zip, saw some skin, there was some moaning.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a long drive to the hotel, and when we got there David told me to bring the boy to his room. He straightened himself up and got out with a laugh to greet some fans who were waiting. I felt violated, and I couldn’t imagine what the boy was feeling as he sat next to me trying to regain his composure. As I walked with him to the hotel, I asked him if he was all right. He smiled and said he was OK, so I took him with me as I went to collect David’s costumes. I knocked gently on the door. David handed me his costume and with a long white arm pulled the boy into the room.
Could it really have been only a few months since I met David and Angie? It didn’t seem possible. I’d slipped into my new life as easily as I slipped into my new clothes. After the UK tour dates were over, the band started to rehearse for a tour of America, to start in September 1972. I hadn’t heard anything from Tony Defries, Ziggy and the Spiders’ manager — but just when I’d given up, I got the call. “We need your passport, Suzi, bring it up tomorrow.”
I nearly screamed. I was going to America with David Bowie and the Spiders from Mars!
On the Road
We landed in New York and travelled to Cleveland, Ohio, for our first gig. After brilliant shows in Cleveland and Memphis, we returned to New York where the band were playing at Carnegie Hall. David had a new girl, Cyrinda Foxe. With her short and curled platinum hair and bright-red mouth, she looked like Marilyn Monroe.
On the day of the Carnegie Hall show I overheard David telling Angie to return to London. “You can help me so much more back in London, keeping people interested by being your fabulous self.” She didn’t say a word but I thought of all the fun she’d miss. She had worked so hard; had been completely involved with the creativity that had brought David here.
At Carnegie Hall, Andy Warhol was in the audience and Cyrinda and Angie sat in the front row together. I’d never seen so many people embrace the Ziggy look — it was a sea of glamorous, sparkly people. Many of them were dressed like David, some like Mick, and a lot of them — both boys and girls — were in full make-up. Others had gone the whole hog and cut, colored and spiked their hair à la Ziggy. My haircut was everywhere! After the show David exited the building with both his wife and his girlfriend on his arm — but the next morning was bittersweet. I said goodbye to Angie. The whole thing seemed unfair.
After New York it was on to Boston, Chicago, Detroit, St Louis, Kansas… Days blended into each other; weekends were no different from a Monday or a Tuesday. We flew into Los Angeles on October 16 and walked out into bright, warm sunshine, with a limo to take us up through Bel Air — steeped in movie-star magic — to the famous Beverly Hills Hotel. Round the pool, the band had grabbed a table and some loungers. Iggy Pop was there, and Elton John.
I’d never seen so many people embrace the Ziggy look — it was a sea of glamorous, sparkly people.
In LA we were invited everywhere. We hit clubs and, when they closed, we invited people back to the hotel. We were relatively well behaved at first, but LA girls came on strong and it wasn’t long before the band and the crew were behaving as one would expect rock stars and their crew to behave. I let my hair down and became as uninhibited as I’d ever been. I still felt out of place with this rock star crowd, but I joined the others ordering exotic cocktails with outlandish names and exquisite food, eating and drinking under photos of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.
Our tour had a funny arrangement with cash: we never had any, living instead off per diems and the record company on the road. We ended up spending a quarter of a million dollars on that first American tour, including travel and accommodation, and this, in 1972, was a breathtaking amount. One morning Tony Defries, David’s manager, called us to a meeting to tell us we were spending too much. It ended with him saying forcefully, “Don’t pay for entertainment, cut back on expenses and send the groupies home before breakfast.”
Often, I thought of all the people in my life who could never have imagined this life for me. One afternoon Iggy Pop appeared as I was drinking a lunchtime cocktail and asked what I could do to make his hair better.
Truthfully, I liked his hair: it was long and shiny, a wonderful messed-up layered do, but I told him I could cut it a bit, and play around with color. He was interested when I said the word “color”. In Iggy’s room, I mixed up double blond bleach, bleached out large clumps then used cornflower-blue dye and finished with a trim and a warning. “Wait a couple of days before going into the pool. The color needs time to set.”
One afternoon Iggy Pop appeared as I was drinking a lunchtime cocktail and asked what I could do to make his hair better.
The Spiders and I left the next afternoon. When we got to San Francisco I heard that Iggy had been asked to leave the Beverly Hills Hotel: he didn’t listen, and there was a streak of blue dye that stretched from one end of the pool to the other.
We returned from America and the upcoming UK tour dates sold out in a flash. But David seemed different these days. He no longer socialized with us as much as he used to, and seemed tired and skinnier than ever. I tried to make him laugh but he didn’t seem to have the energy. I missed the way it used to be.
Still, we were flying high: it was May 1973, and David’s album Aladdin Sane was in the UK charts at No 1. The pre-orders reached more than 150,000 copies, which, according to the NME, hadn’t happened since the Beatles. As the country ached for David, I was still playing tour madam. In Birmingham he spotted a beautiful girl in the audience: young, with long blonde messy hair, a large pale-pink mouth and huge dark eyes. At the hotel David slid an arm around her shoulder and I wandered off to join the crew ordering drinks. But soon a very pale roadie came to find me.
“There’s a mum in reception, looking for her 16-year-old daughter.”
My stomach dropped and my mouth went dry as I heard raised voices at reception and a blonde, good-looking woman in her forties with a red face and a determined attitude walking into the bar. She looked like an older version of the girl with David.
“I’m looking for my daughter. She’s tall and slim with long blonde hair. She’s only 16 years old and I’m not leaving without her.”
I went to David’s room, tapped at the door and finally got a “f*** off, Suzi”.
“David,” I said in my best stage whisper, “that girl you’ve got in there is 16. She’s got to leave. Her mother’s downstairs kicking up a hell of a fuss.”
The girl was instantly deposited out the door, David kissing her and telling her to come back next year. I calmed her down as she sobbed about how much she loved David and I promised her I’d get her tickets to any gig she wanted. After reuniting her with her mother, they left. It was a close call. I wondered if I should start asking for proof of age before they got on the bus.
As the country ached for David, I was still playing tour madam.
I was preoccupied with other worries too. A few months back I had overheard Tony Defries, David and Mick talking about breaking up the band at the end of the tour. There hadn’t been any more talk of it but the secret had weighed heavily on my mind ever since. And as the UK tour’s final shows at the Hammersmith Odeon in London approached in July 1973, I couldn’t think of much else. I’d become someone else, caught up in a crazy existence that is David Bowie and the Spiders from Mars. I wasn’t sure if I’d like my life afterwards.
At showtime the rumble of the Odeon crowd turned into a roar as the lights went down. I stood in the dark at the side of the stage with David, who was dancing like a boxer warming up, his face a concentrated mask of make-up and readiness, a Gauloises in his mouth. I wondered what he was thinking, but he gave nothing away.
The show was brilliant. At one point Jeff Beck arrived, Mick the guitarist welcoming him on stage with a flourish. Jeff looked a bit of a relic next to the band but he played beautifully.
And then at the last encore David went to the mic, quieted the audience with his hands and spoke.
“Everybody this has been one of the greatest tours of our lives. I would like to thank the band, our road crew, our lighting people. Of all of the shows on this tour, this particular show will remain with us the longest” — at this point cheers rose from the audience — “because not only is it the last show of the tour, but it’s the last show that we’ll ever do. Thank you.”
Stunned, I looked around. But everybody was still smiling and laughing. Maybe they were still processing what had been said. It certainly wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. The audience, meanwhile, seemed puzzled, and some people were crying, though that was fairly normal.
“Of all of the shows on this tour, this particular show will remain with us the longest because not only is it the last show of the tour, but it’s the last show that we’ll ever do. Thank you.”
I went to the dressing room to find David and Mick gone; only Woody and Trevor remained. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t told them. I saw how ruthless David could be and felt horrible for the band.
The Spiders from Mars disappeared, never to be seen again. The press was shell-shocked: “BOWIE’S LAST SHOW,” screamed the headlines. “FANS IN TEARS AS THEY LEAVE THE HAMMERSMITH ODEON.”
I talked to the crew and they couldn’t believe what he said. It seemed I was right, that only a few people knew about David’s plans, and I was one of them. The next day I woke up with a hangover, knowing I had to say goodbye to the people with whom I had shared so much. Everything felt strange: I couldn’t believe it was over.
But I wasn’t giving up this life until it kicked me out. The next morning I went to Tony Defries’s office to see what the future might bring. He told me that Mick Ronson will be his next “star”, asked me to work on the project, and to think about it while I was in Paris, where David was recording a new album. Relieved to have a job for now, I picked up my itinerary and headed to France.
David recorded his album, Pin Ups, and then I was invited to join him on holiday at a villa in Rome with Angie, Mick Ronson and some friends. Little did I know how much my life was about to change.
For whatever reason, Mick started seeking me out. We’d never been especially close, though I’d always thought he was gorgeous with his long blond hair and muscular arms. But in Italy we began to spend time together. When he finally kissed me, my heart stopped — I felt like the leading lady in a movie. When he called me “Suzi, baby” in his soft Yorkshire accent, I melted.
I’d become someone else, caught up in a crazy existence that is David Bowie.
Meanwhile, David and Angie hid away. Sitting by a pool was never David’s thing: he was a workaholic who had just let go of the most successful thing England had seen for years. After a few days the pair of them left the villa — and the tension disappeared along with their limo. It was the last time I saw them.
It marked a new beginning — for both me and Mick. He was soon recording his own album and before long we moved in together in a flat beyond our needs and means at Hyde Park Gate.
Soon I was part of his life as he made music, playing guitar for the band Mott the Hoople and later going on the road with Bob Dylan. The novelty of being the girlfriend-slash-assistant wore off: I didn’t want to be a bit of fluff who had to run and get a hairbrush. But Mick’s life became my life and I followed him wherever he went.
In December 1976 Mick and I went back to London for a quick Christmas break and it was there that I found out I was pregnant. We married on the first day of spring in Bearsville, a stone’s throw from Woodstock, New York state, me wearing a purple smock dress with black cowboy boots; Mick a blue leather jacket with jeans and sunglasses. Lisa Anabelle Ronson was born in New York City on August 10, 1977.
We were happy for many years, not knowing what was on the horizon. In April 1993 Mick died of liver cancer aged 46. I have missed him ever since. Many years later, on January 10, 2016, David Bowie died, also of liver cancer, aged 69.
When I heard the news, my life flashed by in photographs. My life was all black and white until I met David, and afterwards it was glorious Technicolor. I always hoped to see him again.
Suzi Ronson is an author, songwriter, and former hairdresser and stylist
