Strength in Bloom: Steel Magnolias Styles and Stuns at Haddonfield Plays & Players
by Ash Kotter
To do justice to what Steel Magnolias at Haddonfield Plays & Players gets so incredibly right, I need to start somewhere closer to home before we pop into Truvy’s Salon in Chinquapin Parish, Louisiana.
Please indulge me while I open a time capsule and let me take you to Eileen’s Studio 24 in Gloucester City, New Jersey.
In the early ‘90s, one of my mom’s three jobs was as a nail technician at Eileen’s. My elementary school was just across the street, so I’d run down to the salon after dismissal, settle into an empty dryer chair in the washroom, and flip through tabloid rag mags I shouldn’t have been allowed to read while waiting for Mom to finish with her clients. Studio 24 wasn’t some strip mall beauty parlor with a light-up sign and a concrete storefront — it was a narrow, single-family home-turned-salon with weathered off-white siding and a modest wrought iron fence framing a tiny front yard. Old and slightly worn on the outside, yet inside, it surged with the hum of blow dryers, the faint buzz of aging fluorescent lights, and the overlapping chit-chat of “The Girls,” as Mom called them. I’d watch and listen as ladies’ hair (and their characters) were lovingly teased, the unfiltered honesty of salon shop talk flying just over my 7-year-old head. Joyce ranted about her boyfriend while setting Patty’s one million perm rods. Debbie said that Betty, the town psychic medium, did Helen’s numerology chart about a month ago, and can you believe she predicted her divorce? Mom had a special box of tools for Jackie’s nails — Jackie had diabetes, so Mom had to be extra careful cutting her cuticles.
Between appointments, whenever one of The Girls was free, they’d give me a wash and blow-dry and tell me how pretty I looked while my mom reset her station for her next booking. After sculpting her last set of acrylics and before dropping me off at the sitter to make her night shift at the Gateway Diner, Mom would find some quality time to paint my nails some odd shade of blue and talk about my school day. I remember when Joyce and her boyfriend got married. I remember when pregnant ladies would come in for a haircut and return months later for a trim with plump little babies in tow. I remember when Eileen’s husband died. I remember how The Girls rallied around her for months as she worked through her grief.
When we say, “It takes a village,” we usually mean family, neighbors, a community that watches out for its own. Studio 24 was nothing short of a village — where relationships weren’t tied to the 6 to 8 weeks between root touch-ups, and where the chapters of life were reflected in every polish change, every decision to “try bangs this time” — in every wash, rinse, and repeat.
One shouldn’t reduce Steel Magnolias to a story about small-town salon gossip. Beneath the chatter about Miss Merry Christmas pageants and who’s married or not, there’s a story about the power of bearing witness to each other’s lives. The stories exchanged over a wash and set may seem small on the surface, but they carry the weight of the world. At its core, Steel Magnolias reminds us of the friendships that become villages, the inside jokes that make grief bearable, and the everyday acts of love, big and small, that hold people together when everything else is falling apart.
In his heartfelt Director’s Note, Al Fuchs reflects on the extraordinary women who shaped him and encourages HPP’s audiences to “find echoes of the Magnolias in [their] own lives” as they watch the story unfold. Hence why I couldn’t ignore my memory of Eileen’s — this play is inherently personal. Playwright Robert Harling wrote Steel Magnolias as a tribute to his sister who passed away from complications of diabetes after giving birth to her son. What began as a short story to preserve her memory for his nephew evolved into a play that captured his sister’s humor and resilience, and the unwavering support of the women who surrounded her. For many in this cast, the story has some clear personal ties and connections — as examples, Addison Michaela Clark (Shelby) sharing the stage with her mother, Lori Caplan Clark (Clairee), and Joanne Mullin (M’Lynn) dedicating her performance to the “strong and selfless mamas” she’s worked with at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. This team doesn’t simply stage Steel Magnolias — it understands it.
Fuchs' direction ensures that every moment feels genuinely lived in. The entire story takes place in one room of Truvy’s salon, yet these women's lives constantly shift within it with never a bore. There is no downtime — someone’s always being washed, curled, styled, sifting through the magazines, making and sipping coffee, always occupying the space and bustling with organic movement. Crafting seamless transitions between humor and heartbreak (it’s true — “laughter through tears IS my favorite emotion”), Fuchs orchestrates action and dialogue with an effortless rhythm that makes you forget you’re watching a play.
The ensemble cast leans into the humanity of their roles, eschewing caricature for authenticity. Addison Michaela Clark’s Shelby is luminous, radiating the charm and optimism that makes her eventual tragedy so gutting. Shelby’s diabetic episode — a moment audiences familiar with the 1989 film brace for — was played with delicate restraint, letting the realism of the moment speak for itself (“There is no alarm, just efficient action,” as Harling says in his stage directions). Joanne Mullin’s M’Lynn is the definition of quiet strength. We see her holding it together with a strong back the entire play, carrying the weight of her daughter’s illness without ever calling attention to her own suffering. When she finally breaks — really breaks — it hits like a gut punch, a devastating performance in the best way. Clark and Mullin breathe truth into Shelby and M’Lynn’s relationship — the exasperation of a mother who loves her daughter more than life itself, the daughter who both needs and resists that love in equal measure.
Carol Furphy-Labinski’s Ouiser Boudreaux brings a joyful balance of gruffness and heart. She’s brash, she’s blunt, at times, meaner than a damn rattlesnake — but when her love for these women spills through, it’s unexpectedly tender. Lori Caplan Clark’s Clairee plays the perfect foil, her poised sarcasm a steady contrast to Ouiser’s bite. The deepening friendship between the two is one of the most delightful throughlines of the show. Jenn Colleluori’s Truvy is style, warmth, and wit, and she leans beautifully into Truvy’s nurturing nature without making her saccharine. Layne Cochran’s adorable Annelle takes us on a journey, her nervous energy in the first act melting into newfound confidence by the end. High praise for Cochran’s work on bringing quirky little Annelle to life, detailed through the little bounce on her toes as she walks, her quirky inflection, and the careful, meticulous way she pours shampoo into her hands before a wash.
Every inch of Ernie Jewell and Zach Fisher’s set felt familiar, as though I already knew my way around. From the distinctly 1980s wood-paneled walls to the black-and-white checkered laminate flooring, the salon (complete with a working wash sink!) felt plucked directly from its time. The sliding door entrance, offering a glimpse of the next-door neighbor’s siding, felt effortlessly immersive. Eric Baker’s natural lighting design added nuance and subtlety, with on-point cues executed by light board operator Nicole Plasket. The gentle pink hue at intermission felt like a little nod to Shelby’s favorite shade of Bashful — a beautiful touch.
Al Fuchs’ props design triggered my sense memory, adding precise and perfect little touches that most productions might overlook but details that anyone who’s ever spent time in home-grown neighborhood salons would instantly recognize. Those distinct dryer chairs, slightly stiff and well-worn like the ones I remember from Eileen’s. The Barbicide jars with combs soaking inside. The metal trolley carts stacked with tools of the trade and the Rolodex of client cards. Cabinets that, when opened, were stocked with all the right salon supplies. The hairspray and nail lacquer and acetone that I could smell from my seat. A crystal candy bowl, filled with those yellow-wrapped butterscotch candies — the off-brand kind your grandma probably had at the bottom of her purse. The detail orientation Fuchs employed when breathing life into this space through properties is a masterclass in specificity.
Ryan PJ Mulholland’s costumes brought each woman’s personality to life — Truvy’s bold Peg Bundy flair (and I say that with utmost compliments), Shelby’s signature blushing shades of pink, Ouiser’s matching sweatsuits, Annelle’s evolving identity from plain-white Reeboks, to red cowboy boots she likely borrowed from Truvy’s closet, to a slightly Puritan overall dress when she finds her faith through her Sunday School community. I loved that each of Truvy’s ladies had their unique salon smock hanging in the closet. Perhaps it was just a way to distinguish them as characters, but I’d like to believe that Truvy would have a unique smock for each of her girls instead of investing in a wad of generic black capes. After all, her ladies only get the best. The wigs styled by Lauren Patanovich took it to another level of high-detail orientation. In a play where hair is a central talking point, the wig design was spot-on: Truvy’s perfect bouffant, Shelby’s short mom-cut in Act II, Annelle’s hair starting with long, soft curls to having clearly experimented with an over-processed perm later on in the show.
Big Southern hats off to Stage Manager Casey Clark and Artistic Director Chris Miller, whose leadership helped bring this production to life. And kudos to the unseen but very much heard John Jackowski, lending his voice as the DJ of KPPD Station, who speaks to us through the speakers of Shelby’s radio.
There’s a profoundly clever moment at the end of the show, just before we fade to black, that spotlights the quiet, unshakable strength of women and reminds us that places like Truvy’s and Eileen’s are far more than places of business; they are places of refuge. The team behind Haddonfield Plays & Players’ Steel Magnolias delivers this production with the same love and resilience that pulses through the play’s heart. Every detail — every roller and hairnet, sharp-witted jab, and moment of tenderness — reveres these women and the truths they represent. Truths about strength that doesn’t shatter, even when it bends.
As Truvy tells M’Lynn in the end: I know it hurts. But it'll get better. And if you feel like taking a whack at something... come on over and hit on me. I won’t break.
Steel Magnolias at HPP runs through March 8 — get your tickets here: https://www.haddonfieldplayers.com/events/2025/2/14/steel-magnolias
