BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

The other night The Graduate was on tv. The first time I saw it I was fifteen and thought Mrs. Robinson was really old and haggard. Now I can't believe how fabulous she looked--how thin and toned and glamourous--despite the fact she smoked and drank like a fish. As you probably recall, Mrs. Robinson became involved with the son of her husband's law partner, a kid young enough to be her daughter's boyfriend.

Suddenly it hit me--I have turned into Mrs. Robinson. Not that I drink like a fish. A goldfish maybe--but not that much and only when nobody's looking. I am like Mrs. Robinson because my daughter Stormy is graduating this month, along with some of her friends whom I have known since they were little boys.

Of course, the thought of asking one of them to unzip me, as Mrs. Robinson did, makes me blush to my toenails. And frankly, I fail to see any connection between what she did and asking Jeremy Porter to tango with me at the senior dance. I was on the decorating committee and needed a respite from blowing up balloons. And I certainly had no intention of asking him to drive me home and come in for a drink the way Mrs. Robinson did.

When Jeremy brought me home, my husband Sonny was in the kitchen eating the last piece of blueberry cheesecake, which is what I had invited Jeremy in for. He wouldn't have brought me home in the first place if Stormy hadn't made such a scene about us doing "the dance of love." Maybe Jeremy was right when he suggested we wait for the Hokey Pokey instead. Excuse me for wanting to show off what I learned in Mr. LaRue's community education tango class!

Sonny never takes me dancing. What is a woman supposed to do when she is legally bound by marriage and would still like to kick up her heels?

Some enchanted evening you may see your paperboy across a crowded room. For one brief moment, you forget you are an ancient lobster crawling toward the last round-up. In your mind you are sweet sixteen again, with all the hopes and dreams of youth--before you realized your life was just a joke. You tap your paperboy's date on the shoulder and cut-in, sweeping him away as she stands there in shock.

"Believe me, Mrs. Bunch," he stammers. "I didn't bring alcohol to the dance. They already searched me at the door."

A crowd gathers. You glimpse your daughter, a look of horror on her face. You'll teach these kids a thing or two. Before he can get away, you drag your partner into the center of the dance floor. How grand you must look--like an older, experienced elephant leading the way as a younger elephant clings to your tail for dear life. You feel like Carmen Miranda in the conga line.

Your dream is shattered all too soon. Someone sets off the fire alarm and everyone has to evacuate the gym. You notice that your car and your daughter are both missing. You could call your husband or ask the principal for a ride but he smells like mothballs and they always make you sneeze.

So Jeremy gives you a ride home on the back of his motorcycle. Oh--to feel the wind in your hair again the way it was back before there were air conditioned cars. When you get home you offer him the pie.

"I'm allergic to blueberries but thanks anyway," he says. Which is good because your husband already ate it anyway.