BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

When I was growing up, I never dreamed I would live to see the 21st century. At the rate I'm going, I probably won't. This is the busiest time of the year for a licensed cosmetologist. Everybody wants a dramatic new hair-do for the holidays. I'm doing flips and beehives, French twists and poodle cuts. I even invented a new style--the Space Probe, in honor of the millennium. It adds two feet to the height of an average woman. Just one of my many patented styles.

At my beauty shop--2001, a Hair Odyssey--I pride myself on going where no woman has gone before. And that includes eyebrows, nose hair and the bikini line. Everybody wants to start the new millennium with a clean slate.

I am more than a regular beautician. I am a member of Mensa. I am also a gymnast, cat fancier and amateur neurologist. I speak pig Latin, play the banjo and can add double digits in my head. Plus, I spend a lot of time hanging out at the food court at the mall, near the magazine stand, so I can stay on top of the latest scientific breakthroughs. I consider it my sacred duty to improve the beauty and quality of existence on this planet.

As if all this weren't enough, people expect me to buy them the latest Pokemon, clean the cat box, and feed them something that doesn't contain living salmonella bacteria.

What am I? Superwoman?

It would be different if we lived out on the old homestead and made our Christmas presents out of corn shucks and spit. Everybody understood when you couldn't shampoo. You'd just rub a little bear grease on your hair. And you could wear the same outfit two days in a row. Nowadays, women are expected to look glamorous, refrain from belching, and create Martha Stewartesque centerpieces. And at what price?

The holidays are hell on anybody who spends ten hours a day on her feet fixing hair and trying to figure out the meaning of life. Lifting the turkey, wrapping presents, and building snowmen all become Herculean tasks. Who has time for arts and crafts? Last year, my sister-in-law had the nerve to say my packages looked like a monkey had wrapped them. "A monkey did wrap them," I said. "And his IQ is twenty points higher than yours."

Does no one see how stupid we will look to people of the 21st century? Sure, we can glue a bow on a pine cone and call it art but what about interstellar travel? It's humiliating to enter the new millennium with just the same old "modern" crap--tv dinners, aluminum Christmas trees and solar calculators. Wouldn't it be wonderful if every man, woman and child on Earth invented at least one revolutionary new device?

What happened to our space-age dreams of glory? The things we used to dream of--the time machine, the robot maid, the car that runs on candy wrappers and old chewing gum? What about the home liposuction kit, the ray gun and the pill to make you irresistible? Are we content to live like sheep with polyester, crock pots and Chia pets?

Instead of trying out new Thanksgiving recipes and shopping for Aunt Myrtle's gift, the public ought to get to work and invent some decent stuff. Otherwise, we'll look like idiots to future generations, no matter how we wear our hair.