My latest client at the salon is about my mum’s age, wearing a tweed skirt and cardigan with sensible shoes. Like most older customers, she starts talking about her family the moment I get started on her hair.

‘My David’s such an artistic boy,’ she says. ‘He’s always been that way, plays guitar and piano. I’m so proud of him.’

She rattles on and on as I’m rolling her up and I smile and nod. Then it’s on with the hairnet and under the dryer as Mrs Jones opens a Woman’s Own.

Half an hour later, when I’m combing her out, she’s back to her son: ‘He was in the top ten, you know — Space Oddity.’ I meet her eyes in the mirror. ‘Are we talking about David Bowie?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’m his mum!’

It’s 1971. I’ve heard of Bowie from kids at The Three Tuns — a pub in Beckenham High Street, Kent — where he sometimes plays. He has an arty thing going on and it seems a bit niche to me. Space Oddity came out over a year ago — a one-hit wonder, maybe?

A few days later, just as I’m sitting down in my blue nylon uniform with a cup of tea, I hear Doris, our elderly receptionist, exclaim: ‘Well, I never did!’

A man and woman are walking down Beckenham High Street, the man pushing a pram. He’s wearing a dull gold midi dress, which flows as he walks, and a floppy hat over his long blond hair. With him is a skinny girl with short blonde hair, wearing a waist-length furry jacket.

The builders across the street can’t resist whistling at the man and calling out: ‘Hello, darling!’ ‘It’s David Bowie,’ I hear someone whisper, as we all crowd round the window. Doris huffs: ‘Look at that, whatever’s next!’

The following week, Mrs Jones comes in for her set with the short-haired girl. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my daughter-in-law,’ she says gingerly. ‘This is Angie.’

Angie’s tall and thin, with narrow blue eyes and a generous smile. When she speaks it’s with a weird accent, American with a touch of cockney. ‘Something outrageous,’ she says, when I ask what she’d like.

As I work on her hair, she’s loud and funny, telling me she helps dress David and the band. She loves the stripes I create in her hair — bright pink, soft blue and silver — and says she’ll be back next week.

And that’s how it all starts…

Angie has asked me for a perm at home. So as soon as my last client is out the door, I drive to Haddon Hall, a huge mansion where David and Angie live on the ground floor.

Inside, there are tall stained-glass windows and a sweeping, Hollywood-style staircase leading to a minstrels’ gallery. The carpet is midnight blue and the ceiling silver. And there’s David, sitting in the bay window, flicking through a magazine. He nods to Angie and they both leave the room.

They don’t return for what feels like an eternity; I find out later they do this regularly to guests, to see who’ll stay and who’ll go.

When they finally emerge, Angie says she’s changed her mind about the perm. We chat about style, fashion and music — well, they do, while I listen and agree with everything they say.

The truth is I haven’t heard of anyone David is talking about — Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground.

So when he mentions Marc Bolan, I’m delighted — I’ve heard of him — and say I love the way he looks. David doesn’t respond and the atmosphere shifts. Later I find out he and Marc are fierce competitors.

After flipping silently through more magazines, David shows me a photograph of a model with a red spiky hairdo. ‘Can you do that?’ he asks.

A woman’s hairstyle! But David’s the perfect person to pull this off: tall, rock star thin, with high cheekbones and translucent white skin, his neck long and slim, his body almost feminine.

It takes me about half an hour to chop off his long blond hair. Then disaster: his hair won’t stand up — it just flops to one side.

Angie calls me a few days later and says in a slightly strained voice that David isn’t happy; she asks when I’ll be back. I turn up that night with Red Hot Red dye from the Schwarzkopf Fantasy range. I’ve also brought an anti-dandruff treatment from Germany. It doesn’t just cure dandruff — it sets hair like stone.

David greets me in silence. His hair looks like a schoolboy’s haircut, but by the time I’ve finished it’s bright red, standing up like a brush. Angie screams and he dances round the room, posing, shaking his head, loving it, looking at himself in the mirror again and again.

Angie starts inviting me round. Sometimes their baby Zowie [real name Duncan] is crawling around on the carpet and hanging on to the coffee table, with no one paying him much attention.

One night there are eight or nine people there, including a clothing designer, Freddie Burretti, and his West Indian girlfriend with hair the colour of an egg yolk.

Freddie and David sit close together on the sofa and I’m more than a bit shocked when David leans over and kisses him full on the mouth — a proper kiss! Angie laughs and says: ‘Boys will be boys!’ It’s at this moment I realise I’m not like these people at all.

At 22, I’m completely out of my depth. I’m only three miles from home but I may as well be in a foreign land.

Angie walks me over to a group of boys lingering at one side of the room. She introduces me to ‘the boys who play with David’ as ‘the girl who cut David’s hair’.

‘’Ello,’ they say in unison. Woody (drums), Mick (guitar) and Trevor (bass) — all from Hull — are in regular T-shirts and jeans and don’t look like David or his glamorous friends in the slightest. I ask them if they like David’s hair.

The silence that follows is short and Mick says: ‘It’s not for everyone.’ They all laugh.

Before I leave, Angie asks if I want to work with them all. I say yes, but I’m not sure if she’s serious. To be fair, I’m still a bit shocked at the kiss.

In January 1972, Mum comes home with the Melody Maker. David’s on the front cover, looking wonderful — with my haircut! ‘Is this who your friends are?’ Mum asks, hands on hips. I know her; she’s going to take a dim view of me being involved with a ‘poof’.

‘I’m the laughing stock of the shop! Mr Jutton (Mum’s elderly boss at the chemist’s) is hardly speaking to me.

‘Goodness knows what poor Mrs Jones is going through.’

Angie calls whenever David needs a touch-up or a trim. The talk is mostly about shows, or how he should look, what he should wear. One night, as Angie opens the door for me, I hear David singing the chorus of Starman.

Angie asks me to help with the costumes and shows and of course I say yes. I go home with my heart racing, but decide not to give in my notice. Angie hasn’t mentioned wages; it’s so airy-fairy with this lot.

The next time I touch up David’s roots, I’m invited to a gig in London. It’s a real eye-opener: his hair sticks straight up like bright feathers and his make-up gives him the appearance of a being from another planet.

He’s wearing a tight red two-piece suit made from quilted nursery fabric, strewn with yellow, blue and green ABCs; his feet are laced up in red plastic boots.

The show is electrifying. Later, Angie takes me to meet his manager, Tony Defries — tall, with a huge afro and a large cigar hanging between his fingers. ‘Come and work for us full time,’ he says.

But weeks go by and no one mentions anything. Then one day Angie shows me the cover of the next album: The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars. I gasp. My haircut’s on the cover!

One Wednesday — my day off — I go over late morning to do Angie’s hair. ‘I saw Mickey Finn last night,’ she giggles. ‘I didn’t get home until 6am!’

I’ve actually heard of Mickey Finn — he plays percussion for T. Rex. Angie laughs, slips off her robe and gets into the bath in front of me. ‘Oh, it’s OK, David knows all about Mickey. He encourages me! We have an open marriage; we both have fun.

‘Darling, life is too boring to be with just one person. It’s no secret, it’s just the way we are. We’re both liberated, both happy and free to do whatever we like.’

One of her long legs stretches over the lip of the bath, toes dripping water on the floor. ‘It’s better than lies and deceit, don’t you think?’ I’m at a loss, so I don’t say anything.

‘My first great love was a girlfriend from my school in Connecticut,’ she sighs, giving me a wicked grin. ‘We were caught together in bed and I was expelled from school!’

I’m not sure what reaction she’s looking for — but if it’s shock, she’s succeeding. A few days later, David asks if I can come over to do his hair.

When I get to Haddon Hall, he opens the front door to greet me with a big grin, holding my shoulders as he kisses me on both cheeks. ‘You look nice,’ he says. Alarm bells go off: David never opens the door, never kisses me. I ask where Angie is. ‘Oh, she’s off being her usual fabulous self,’ he laughs. ‘I don’t know where she is half the time.’

He gently takes my hand. ‘I don’t really want my hair cut. I wanted to see you.’ He smiles sheepishly. ‘Let’s go up to town and have dinner.’ I can’t help but smile back, but I’m nervous about being alone with him — what will we talk about? I’m panicking. What will I say if he talks about Rimbaud, or Nietzsche?

But tonight I meet a different David, charming and sweet, and before I know it his arm is around my waist and we’re on our way. He seems interested in what I have to say and puts me at ease.

We sit at a corner table, talking about his manager and David’s almost reverent about the way Tony creates opportunities. Then we talk about Angie. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without her — she’s so outrageous and brave,’ he says. ‘Not a jealous bone in her body,’ he adds, giving my knee a squeeze under the table.

On the way back, I think about what’s coming up. I want a job with him far more than a night in bed, but leaving gracefully feels complicated. We pull into the driveway, then sit in the dark until he says: ‘Well, Suzi, are you coming in?’

I’m not that attracted to him, but as he holds my eyes the distance between us closes and suddenly he’s kissing me.

It’s a rush, the passion rises, and before I know what I’m doing I’m in the bedroom. I let my inhibitions go as he undresses me.

He’s a tender, romantic lover who tells me my body is Rubenesque, that I’m beautiful.

I feel as if I’ve crossed a line I didn’t mean to cross. When the room comes back into focus, he says that he loves being with me, that he’ll have fun telling Angie all about it. I freeze. ‘You’re going to tell her?’ ‘Of course,’ he replies. ‘I tell her everything and she me — we have no secrets.’

Shame washes over me. How can I face Angie? ‘She’ll understand,’ he says. ‘She expects it — we have an understanding. It’d be worse if I didn’t tell her.’

He seems a little impatient with me now and a bit amused: ‘Don’t be silly. I thought you understood.’ I dress to leave. He doesn’t get up to see me to the door, doesn’t say anything else except goodnight as he turns over to go to sleep.

Have I blown it? Will Angie feel betrayed? What was I thinking? All I can do is wait for the fallout.

A couple of suspenseful days go by before Angie calls to talk about the next gig, as if nothing happened. She doesn’t say a word about my night with David. I’m grateful. I don’t want to come on like a groupie; I want a job. David — apart from a soft smile and a kiss on the cheek — behaves as he always does, tuning his guitar and talking about the next gig.

Does everyone sleep with everyone else? When the band lived at Haddon Hall for a while, they saw half-naked girls walking around downstairs, part of an all-night party. They were invited to join in, but declined. Maybe the gay element put them off.

In June, Angie calls in a high state of excitement: they’re going to see Elvis at Madison Square Garden in New York City. ‘Come over — David must look wonderful!’

When I get there, he’s pacing up and down, smoking one cigarette after another. All he talks about is meeting Elvis — how it will be, what he should say, what he should wear and, above all else, how can he look really young? He wants to be seen as the heir apparent; he’s planning a photo of him and Elvis where he’ll be looking up at the older man. ‘I’d sell my soul to be famous,’ he says.

In July, David sings Starman on Top Of The Pops and that changes everything. He’s invited to perform at the Royal Festival Hall and gets signed up by Elvis’s label, RCA.

My head is spinning as I try to work out how to straddle my values with what’s around me. I see first-hand how girls are treated in the rock world and don’t want to be one of them.

Finally, at the end of the month, I’m told to go to see Tony about a job. He answers the door in a dressing gown and smiles like a crocodile as he asks me in.

I want the job, but I don’t want to sleep with him to get it. As I press past him, he doesn’t move an inch. Tony’s eyes, like steel-grey marbles, weigh me up. ‘I’m going to make David Bowie a huge star,’ he says. He talks about David and Angie as if they’re naughty children. ‘When I found those two, they had nowhere to live, an ineffectual manager and no idea how to go forward.

‘I felt sorry for them. They came here and David was huddled in the corner’ — he points to the sofa. ‘They were lost.’

His plan, he says, is to make David unreachable, mysterious, otherworldly. ‘Nothing is done unless it comes from here,’ he says. ‘All interview requests must be directed here. No photos are permitted. We’ll provide a suitable photo if needed.’

Then he offers me £20 a week — £9 more than I’m making at the salon.

A few weeks later, I’m at the Rainbow Theatre in London, where David is doing a theatrical show featuring his former lover, the mime artist Lindsay Kemp.

My job now involves everything from doing David’s make-up and hair to taking orders for lunch, coffee, cigarettes, anything anyone wants. Kids pour down the aisles, some wearing make-up and sporting his haircut.

The curtain parts and in a flash of light David strides on as Ziggy Stardust. Afterwards, the reviews compare him to Judy Garland: ‘A star is born,’ they rave.

Then it’s a few more sell-out dates round the country. Whenever it’s time for a costume change, I’m in the wings with a lit cigarette and a glass of wine for David.

P artway through the tour, a friend of the promoter comes to a show with an adorable-looking dark-haired boy. During a costume change, David says: ‘I want to meet him after the show. Get him in the car for me, Suzi.’ I say I think he’s with someone. David gives me a sceptical look. ‘Just tell him,’ he says, with an impossible smirk.

When I discreetly tell the boy that David wants to meet him, he’s thrilled. ‘Meet me at the stage door when the encore starts,’ I tell him.

At the end of the show, the boys in the band jump into the front of our limo with the driver. There’s just me and this scared-looking kid in the back. He’s shaking — I can feel it.

Then David throws himself into the car and, without a word, launches himself at the boy. I can see him 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’m speechless.

The guitarist Mick Ronson asks if I’m all right and extends his hand through the internal window to hold mine as David and the boy wrestle around right next to me. Now I know why none of them sat in the back.

I sit forward, trying not to look. I hear a zip, see some skin, there’s some moaning. When we pull up at the hotel, David tells me to bring the boy to his room, then gets out to greet fans.

I feel violated and I can’t imagine what the boy’s feeling. I ask if he’s all right. He smiles and says he’s OK, so I take him with me as I go to collect David’s sweaty stage clothes.

When I knock on the door. David hands me his costume and, with a long white arm, pulls the boy into the room.

We’re back in Kent and I’m trying not to think about the boy. The band have started rehearsing for America — it’s all anyone talks about, the American tour.

No one’s asked me to come. It’s all over; I’m so depressed.

Then, just when I’ve about given up, I get a call from Tony.

I nearly scream. I’m going to America with David Bowie And The Spiders From Mars!

•  Adapted from Me And Mr Jones by Suzi Ronson, to be published by Faber & Faber on April 4 at £20. © Suzi Ronson 2024. To order a copy for £18 (offer valid to 23/3/24; UK P&P free on orders over £25), go to mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3176 2937.