BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

"Why would you want to look like a fat, wrinkled cat?" That's what my sister Kathy said when I answered the door in my Halloween getup the other day.

"I'm pink, I'm fluffy, and I'm purr-fectly divine," I said. "Anyway, you should talk--standing there in the same old clown suit you always wear."

"How many times do I have to tell you--it's not a costume," my sister replied. In a huff, she loaded her electronic rodent repeller in the car and left.

What a shame it is for sisters to fight at the most wonderful time of the year. Halloween--the sights, the sounds, the sugar rush. I'm transported back to childhood, to the creaky old house our grandmother won in a poker game. Grandmother celebrated spook day with all the pomp and splendor of a trust-fund kindergartner's birthday party. Hired help, fish eggs, a live band--Grandmother knew how to throw a bash.

I can see her now, dressed all in black, toiling over a bubbling cauldron into which her hair occasionally dangled, sending up a stench that could be smelled for miles. Her Eye of Newt cocktails were a the talk of the town. In fact, hers was the most popular house on the block, for you never knew if the punch was spiked. And when little ghosts and goblins wound up in the emergency room, as often happens after a night spent gorging on candy, Grandmother was routinely hauled down to the police station for questioning, from which she emerged the next morning unscathed. Except for one year when she had to do hard time.

What a character. Even on Christmas and St. Patrick's Day Grandmother was always jumping out from behind the sofa, scaring Kathy and me half to death. She would "chop off her hand" and threaten us with butcher knives. Or pretend to be dead for several hours. Later on, she would laugh so hard and then I'd know it was a joke.

Despite her insistence she was just kidding around, Grandmother's high-jinx turned my sister's heart against the holiday. Sometimes Kathy made a feeble attempt to dress up--as Cher or Jan Brady, as I recall. But even then people mistook her for a clown and she became embittered. She quit trick-or-treating, though she mooched my candy until only those yucky black things were left.

Today Kathy eats candy year-round which I consider sacrilegious, or at least bad form. She complains of Halloween flashbacks and says the trauma ruined her life--preventing her from winning cheerleader. And even now, she's not much fun.

As I've often remarked, my sister and I are as different as night and day, with me being the fascinating, mysterious night and her a gloomy, overcast day. Call me a sick-o but Halloween is my favorite holiday. You get to dress up. Eat a lot of junk. It's okay to scream. And you open your door to total strangers, hoping they won't kill you. A thing I'm reluctant to do the rest of the year, especially with blood relations.

Like Grandmother, I go whole hog. It takes months to create my fabulous costumes. A minimum of three different ones are required--as I am invited to more parties than a debutante, owing to my reputation as the Queen of Halloween. This season's cat suit consists of a fake fur hood and rubber nose. Granted, it seems to draw attention to those annoying laugh lines around the eyes, ears and mouth. And the Pepto-Bismol Pink leotard is a bit on the snug side but what is Spandex for? I'll also be appearing as "Elvis In Drag" and a pirate, which can be assembled from the Elvis outfit with a few minor adjustments.

I'm so excited.

Of course, some dreary people think trick-or-treating is only for kids and give me just a piece or two of very small candy. In case you're wondering, I prefer 99 cent [John--can we make a cent sign?] candy bars--although anything chocolate will do. And I adore that candy corn.

But whatever it is won't last long once my sister shows up. I can hardly wait.