BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Sure, his socks are weird and he can't dance worth a hoot. Maybe it's time to admit you're no Fred Astaire yourself. Sunday is Father's Day when every father--whether he's a saint, a crook or a Congressman--deserves a tip of the hat.

Everybody longs for perfect parents. I used to fantasize about being raised by wolves. I would have been an especially noble savage. A gorgeous savage who painted her toenails with the crimson sap of a man-eating plant. A fearless savage who relished diving off 30 foot cliffs into crocodile-infested rivers. A natural savage--unfettered by society's ridiculous taboos against things like belching in public.

An innocent savage mystified by even the simplest card trick.

But my idyllic dream was not to be. I grew up under the iron fist of the wrestler they called Little Lord Fauntleroy, the muscle machine who struck fear in the hearts of seasoned heavyweights from Siberia to Timbuktu. Dad was a man's man--obedient only to the law of tooth and nail. A man whose only master was the elbow drop, the flying mare, or a hard right hand to the mid-section. A proud man forced to leave the state of Texas when he lost a main event match against a bear.

Suddenly fatherless, I quickly abandoned my dream of being raised by animals--especially bears. I became a lonely child. Fans no longer lined the sidewalk to our house in hopes of clipping one of Daddy's golden curls. At school I was the brunt of cruel taunts. "Your father was defeated by a bear!" I grew to miss the harsh workouts and the danger of getting caught in the ropes or hit by flying chairs. I longed for the headlock of paternal affection.

How ironic that a chicken would enter my life, filling the void left by my absent father. I started hanging around the circus, as such children often do, falling under the spell of Mrs. Clem, who told fortunes on the midway with Franny the Fortune-telling Hen.

Franny was a good animal, although she quit laying about the time she joined the circus, according to Mrs. Clem, who raised her from an egg.

"Franny makes me feel relaxed," said Mrs. Clem. "It's a comfort to know the future."

It was strangely exhilarating to go from the rigorous training schedule imposed by my authoritarian father to the gentle guidance of a psychic hen. I could use some relaxation. And I needed to know the future, in order to determine which horse would win at the racetrack, which girls at school padded their bras, and a lot of other things.

"Scratch once for yes, two for no," said Mrs. Clem, and Franny readily complied. Our fortunes grew by leaps and bounds. Soon I had won enough money to appeal my father's case before the state wrestling commission. When Franny was asked under oath, "Was the bear cheating?" Franny emphatically scratched once which meant yes. Then, in a shocking turn of events, a veterinarian broke down on the stand and admitted that the bear was doped. At last my father was allowed to return to the state of Texas.

Many Father's Days have come and gone since then and my dad has not done anything else to get himself kicked out of the state. He won't eat chicken, even to this day.