BEAUTY SHOP TALK
by
Vicki Charmaine Bunch
Last Friday night Bunkley Threadgill's play Fat Lady on the Beach premiered at Goat Head Dinner Theater to rave reviews. The story of a Swedish shop girl who falls off the boat and gets amnesia on the way to America, Fat Lady was Bunkley's gift to the city of Axel.
Misty Bloodworth, the manicurist who lives in back of the beauty shop, got the starring role of Gerta the shop girl. Bunkley himself portrayed marine biologist Fred Estuary, a scientist determined to prove that octopuses are 100 times smarter than humans. I played Gerta's mother, a role I disdained until I saw the costume--a red and white polka dot swimsuit with a bathing cap shaped like a pineapple.
"Vicki Charmaine Bunch's flamboyant interpretation of Ulla Larsen tethers the play to the ideals of post-disco feminism," wrote theater critic Buffy Clap in Sunday's Axel Rattler. "Larsen speaks for women everywhere when she declares, 'I can't understand why people use queen as a term of derision. To wear a crown has always been my highest aspiration.'"
How could the playwright have known what was in my very own soul? Like Ulla, I've always longed to be crowned. And Friday night I got to wear the crown of glory as the audience yelled "Bravo!" and "Encore!" and "Bottoms up!" Falling down drunk on the sweet nectar of adulation, I couldn't help asking everybody, "Would you like my autograph?"
Suddenly my life here in Axel as a cosmetologist and member of Mensa seemed to suck. Did people honestly expect me to go back to my normal crummy existence, clipping nose hairs and shaving guys' backs? Was I supposed to hide my glorious magnificence (which has just now erupted after years of cruel repression) under a bushel?
Sensing I was losing touch with reality, I decided to talk to someone. Someone with experience at being deified. I caught up with Bunkley Threadgill as he was loading his El Camino for the drive back to New Jersey.
"Hey, Bunkley," I said, panting after running several blocks in high-heel cowboy boots. "Did you see Buffy Clap's review?"
"What about the clap?" said Bunkley. "I'm sorry. My mind's a million miles away."
"Is something wrong?" I said.
"I got a call from this professor at A & M. He told me octopuses are the juvenile delinquents of the high seas. I've got to rewrite the whole play."
"Gee, that's too bad. Hey, I was thinking about moving to New York City," I said.
"What for?"
"People around here are dumb. Plus, there aren't that many plays for me to be in."
"You've been bitten by the acting bug," said Bunkley. "Hope it's not fatal."
"When all those people started clapping the other night, it felt just like the time Destinee and I won the mother-daughter beauty pageant. You start to think you're not a pathetic loser after all."
"Don't let it go to your head. Hop in," said Bunkley. "You can ride with me to the county line."
Bunkley talked about the acting game, including things I didn't want to hear. Like, "On stage you look ten pounds heavier." And "A unicorn costume is like wearing a 200 lb gorilla suit." And "Blue eye shadow looks tacky on tv."
As we approached Krystal's XXX on the county line, I started getting panicky. "Wait Bunkley, what can I do about my acting career? I'm Ulla, remember? I want to wear the crown."
"Kerouac said you only get to wear the crown when you're writing. Now I've got to get back to New York and work on those rewrites."
Trudging five miles back to the beauty shop in the heat, I pondered Bunkley's words and decided he was right. It's like the housewife in the margarine commercial. The crown pops up when you get an idea. When you think, "What if I substitute cream of celery for mushroom soup?" But not when you're thinking, "Oh, damn, we're out of mayonnaise."
Who needs Broadway?