BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Since last week's column on why Johnny Depp is sexier than Troy Donahue, many of you have called to ask, "How can I become a bad boy?" It isn't easy, if it's not your nature to be bad. Anybody can commit a Class C misdemeanor--but if wrongdoing turns you into a mass of quivering anxiety, what's the point?

The outlaw is a romantic figure. Bad boys are sexy. Remember the rumors about Eddie Haskell? "I want to be sexy," you say. "Tell me how."

When I was growing up, my father--a professional wrestler--was constantly getting in trouble with referees for bringing metal folding chairs and needle nose pliers into the ring. Women were nuts about Daddy and threw their brassieres at him as he entered the coliseum. We never had to buy bras at a store.

Psychiatrists say once a girl gets a taste of bad boys, she will never settle for anything else. Like the meanest rat in the cage, bad boys rule. They also get the chicks.

Want chicks? Here's how. Bad boys look for the opportunity to behave badly in even the most mundane circumstances. An example--not separating beer bottles from beer cans in the recycling bin. They pile their trash bags on the neighbor's lawn and allow weeds to grow in the petunia bed.

For any goody-two-shoes who wants to transform himself, the question becomes: Is leaving the toilet seat up enough or should you spring for the electric chair? The toilet seat may get you babes--a compulsive housekeeper or your own grandmother but, to get the really fine chicks, you have to aim higher. On the magnitude of, say, a professional athlete. Spit in public, assault people, grab your crotch.

And don't apologize. My husband Sonny repented for his evil ways after a near-death experience. He was steering with his knees, trying to light the cigar he stole off his bosses' desk, when a squirrel darted in front of his truck loaded with 200 cases of Cream Soda. He slammed on the brakes and the truck jack-knifed, trapping him in the cab. As the minutes ticked by before his rescue, all he could think about was missing the blue plate special at Krystal's XXX. "If I get out of here without starving to death," he vowed, "I'll never drive with my knees again."

People hardly recognized the new reformed Sonny who slowed down at stop signs and tipped his hat to the ladies. "That Sonny's a real gentleman," they would remark when they found out who it was.

Sonny was gentle all right. Gentle as a wet noodle--with the same personality. He started playing the zither and spent hours picking lint off the floor. Then, at his high school reunion, Sonny refused to gator.

"That's the last straw," I said. "I'm leaving."

It was during my weekend jaunt to Vegas that Sonny became his old self again. He threw a beer bash and got bean dip on the sofa. Then he woke up in a strange trailer house. I'll never forget the sight of Sonny staggering up the driveway Monday morning. I leapt on him and smothered him with kisses.

I didn't even ask about all the bras in the front yard.