The Blonde With The Petrified Hair

There’s a lady I see all over the place with a hairdo from Mars.

She’s tiny, like an old paper doll that, from the back, looks 12, while wearing a helmet on her head like a viking.

She power walks in the morning, shops at Duane Reade and Feldman’s Hardware Store and belongs to the David Barton Gym.  I’ve seen her at Starbucks, Panera, Dunkin Donuts and Butterfield Market, buying Land O’Lakes butter and pricey bread. Though little in height, she’s very commanding telling the deli man…I want it sliced..evenly…even the ends, while watching with an eye like a surgeon.

She has a husband who’s actually quite good looking, I’d say in his 80th year, she bosses around, his balls bouncing back and forth in her Gucci shoulder bag.  As an aside, why do women do that?  What do you get out of turning your man into an Egyptian eunuch in a Brooks Brothers blazer?

Today I was behind her in Dean and Deluca buying tea.  She smelled like the foyer of Campbell’s Funeral Home, that whiff of frozen lilies wafting from her head as if it was sprayed with formaldehyde.

She turned and said, “They need more help, don’t they !”


Not to trash the dead, but she sounded and looked amazingly like Nancy Reagan, just with a hard hat.

“Well,” I said, “it’s only 8 a.m. on a weekend.  It’s okay to relax a bit, don’t you think?”

She sniffed and sneered like a bulldog and said, “I’m going to be late for brunch if that lazy, stupid girl doesn’t put a move on.”


“Brunch has to be at least three hours away.”

“Yes, and…your point?”

You have time for that mimosa and egg white omelet, and a nap.  No, I didn’t say that.

I said, “But there’s plenty of time to get ready…it’s Sunday after all.”  I kept my hands in my sweat pants pockets so I wouldn’t be tempted to poke her hair.

Then it hit me…her Jiffy Pop do needs more time.  It’s not a …hop in the shower, pull a comb through, and away we go.

It probably has to be baked in the oven at 350 for at least three hours to look that way.

I couldn’t help myself, the imp in me making a cameo.  “So, may I ask, who does your hair?”

“Mr. Robbie, on Lexington and 80th,” she said, suddenly a foot taller. “He’s amazing…just like Kenneth, but without the extravagant price.”

First of all, for the record, whoever does this woman’s hair is NOTHING like Kenneth who did Jackie O’s and my pal Nancy’s who had the chicest short haircut on the planet.  Mr. Robbie must drop acid before he takes a comb to her mop that should come on a stick.

I’m just sayin.

She whips out a tiny Vuitton pad and pencil scribbling his number.  “Tell him Dot sent you…maybe he’ll throw in a manicure.”

Jesus..was I happy when I heard


I watched her leave with her large baguette and vanilla iced espresso insisting it be double cupped.  And you know what?

All the while her hair never moved a muscle.

Mr. Robbie, clearly, scared it to death.







About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Thanks.
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22 Responses to The Blonde With The Petrified Hair

  1. Patricia says:

    I know that hair! I was a hairdresser when BIG hair was in. Clients would come in have their hair done, leave, come back the next week, same day same time, and I would brush out the “rats”, shampoo, set, dry, comb out, make the appointment for the following week and do it all again. Yuck!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. micklively says:

    I wonder how much Mr. Robbie charges to create spun sugar on her head? The national debt of a small island nation methinks. I have no problem with folk being coiffured but, when it stops looking like hair, I wonder, what’s the point?

    Liked by 1 person

  3. No doubt the hole in the ozone gets bigger every time she has that hair done. Oh, and can I get an ounce of that confidence to go please?

    Liked by 1 person

  4. skinnyuz2b says:

    Susannah, I love your use of ‘petrified’ and your comparisons to Jiffy Pop and cotton candy. I’ve seen some of what must be her relatives.
    If you don’t end up using Mr. Robbie, I know someone you can go to. My Pookie and I used to do Christmas Eve Day meals and gifts for 13 – 20 elderly shut-ins. One of the women had a red wig with white hairs hanging out the bottom. The wig was matted and actually had some dust balls in it. She informed us she used to be a hairdresser. While standing behind her, with me in front, Pookie suggested we could spare a half hour for her to do my hair. After some fast talking, on our way to the car, I let Pookie know what nasty things might be happening in his future, while he couldn’t stop chuckling.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Elle Knowles says:

    Love the line about twin beds! It would probably be dangerous to sleep next to hair like that. A woman with hair teased up like a rats nest would always sit in front of me at church years ago. It was a mess! My hands were itching to get a brush to it for the whole sermon. It was very distracting… ~Elle

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Clearly she is frozen in a long past time period. Maybe the Paleolithic? Not a fan of people who berate their spouse in public. That’s best left for “behind doors.”

    Liked by 1 person

  7. joannesisco says:

    I don’t know how scary Mr Robbie is in manipulating her hair into place, but *Dot* definitely frightens me!

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Gail Kaufman says:

    What is it with elderly women and helmet hair? Is that the destiny for us all?


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