BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

The phone at the beauty shop is ringing off the wall. People can't believe U forgave my back-stabbing sister on national television.

For weeks I've been talking about being on Forgive and Forget--"the show that tries to bring people together again." Host Mama Love gives you the opportunity to apologize to the person you've wronged. If you're forgiven, your victim will be standing behind a door. Otherwise, no one's there. My customers couldn't wait to see Kathy's expression when the door opened and I wasn't there. For years she has made my life a living hell. Kissing my husband. Telling everyone about my lipo. Backing the truck over my reclining Elvis.

Then she committed the ultimate act of betrayal. Nominating me--a licensed cosmetologist--for one of Oprah's make-overs.

I am by nature a rational, intelligent person. More philosophical than most. Like Immanuel Kant in a bouffant wig.

I racked my brain searching for a reason to forgive her. And pretty much decided no way, Jose. Of course, Kathy would bawl her head off and I would look like a heartless rat, but I didn't care.

The night before the show I had this dream/ A review of my life--the good, the bad, and the ugly. Stuff I'd repressed since beauty college. The time Mama made us wear bread hats at the beach as a punishment for tracking sand. The sea gulls pecked us until we bled. Kathy's the only person I know as terrified of birds as I am. And how, on the same vacation, Daddy got so drunk he couldn't state his country of origin to the guard at the Mexican border and we wound up in jail.

The summer we were sent to mind control camp where we lived on Frosted Flakes for three weeks. How we were awakened every 15 minutes to sing "Little Bunny Foo Foo." How we finally broke.

There was Mama attacking my third grade teacher with a knife when I didn't get the role of Blanche DuBois. And the time she sedated us and dyed our hair green for St. Patrick's Day. How she sold our dog Fluffy to the circus after we'd spent all summer training him to drag an anvil across the yard.

Suddenly I was in a revival tent like the ones they put up on the outskirts of town. Strutting back and forth like a preacher yelling, "Can I have a witness?" Instead of some big response, you could have heard a pin drop. Then I noticed my sister Kathy had been turned into a black diamond watermelon.

I called 911 but no one believed me.

Food is a metaphor for life. My sister and I are pears and apples. Wheat and white. Beer and Tang. I'm the glitzy, glamorous one. She's a meticulous housekeeper. I'm as limp as a newborn pup. She could kill practically any woman with one hand tied behind her back. With her turned into a watermelon, I felt so alone.

A teeter-totter appeared and I realize the only way I was going to escape that eerie, lonely feeling was by see-sawing to a happier place. I picked up my sister--the watermelon--and sat her on the other end. But when I tried to see-saw she was catapulted into the congregation, splatting on their heads as they screamed in agony.

Then I woke up and knew when that door opened I would be standing there with open arms.

They filmed the show on Friday. I'll never forget the look on Kathy's face when she opened the door. We both started boo-hooing. Even Mama Love teared up.

"You can kiss Sonny whenever you want to," I said.

"I'll organize your closet," Kathy replied.

For about 30 minutes we were as close as sisters can possibly be--trading recipes, painting each other's toe nails.

Then she mentioned Oprah.

"I'll bet they can do something with those roots," she said.

We got into the kind of hair-pulling fight they have on Jerry Springer.

Next time she begs for my forgiveness, I'll tell her to forget it.