BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT:

The watermelon eat-off commemorating my daring rescue of Big Boy Al Camino near Twin Points in 1969 has been canceled. In a move guaranteed to shake people's faith in humanity, Big Boy Al went on Prime Time Live and denied--before an audience of millions--that I was involved in his rescue.

"Vicki Charmaine Bunch never even got in the water," he told Diane Sawyer.

It was a slap in the face. Like somebody saying Mickey Lee Lane didn't write "Oo--Oo" or that Thomas Edison didn't invent the electric chair. A basic tenet of everybody's belief system had been torn asunder, whatever asunder means.

The thing that hurts most is all these years I thought Big Al owed his life to me. I assumed (though he never said it) he would repay the favor. That when I was being attacked by a great white shark he would beat the livin' daylights out of it. Or he would advise me against consuming potato salad that had been left in the sun too long. Or if I was about to step into a manhole, he would cover it with a sheet of quarter inch plywood. I was living in a fool's paradise. I guess I'm lucky to be alive.

I fantasized that maybe Big Boy was writing a book about me, a book that would alleviate the fears of parents who bemoan the dearth of heroes. Hundreds of teenage lives might have been turned around. I would go on a national tour, visiting high schools, telling the story with as much humility as I could muster. The facts are simple. Big Al, an Olympic hopeful, did a cannonball on a full stomach (having just consumed an entire watermelon) and I risked my life to save him, breaking a fingernail in the process--before there was any such thing as Leon's Press-on Nails. With the big prom was just around the corner. Also I got my bouffant wet and Bashful Beige hair rinse ran all over my tangerine bikini.

Did I ask for financial compensation? No! Did I ask for public recognition? No! Any boy who rescued a big old guy under those circumstances would have gotten an Eagle Badge or something but no, not me, a mere girl who go go danced on weekends at Panther Hall. I didn't even tell anybody about my selfless deed. Well, hardly anybody. At least I didn't go around bragging all the time.

I haven't brought it up in over 20 years. At least not to Big Al. Naturally, it would come up now and then. After all, its my defining moment. The one I refer to when someone says, "Tell me about yourself." The one I used on the personal essay that won me a scholarship to Ajax Beauty College. The one I use in job interviews and ads in the Personals.

The notion that Big Boy would deny it now after all these years, denying me my long overdue adulation, is like somebody driving a Philips head screwdriver right through my heart. It really hurts.

If only there were a witness. Somebody who saw Big Boy flailing helplessly in his Ray Bans and me with hair dye dripping down my neck. Perhaps you saw the ski boat--the Horsefly--and a blonde treading water with a broken fingernail--a sight anyone would remember, even after two decades.

Now everybody thinks I'm just a stupid idiot. As if I had lied on my resume or padded my expense account. I may not have a resume or an expense account or anything else but I do have personal integrity. That and a broken heart.

Girls, think twice next time you have to chose between saving a man and saving your manicure. You'll never be thanked for saving a man but at least people will admire your nails.