BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Christmas is a depressing time for many people, mainly women, who are stuck with shopping for men. Just thinking about it chokes me up. It reminds me of the time I mistook Sonny's Bass Assassins for Gummy Worms and ate all 20. Like he noticed, he has so much other stuff. That's just the problem. What do you buy for the man who has everything?

THE GREATEST TRUTH--ALL MEN HAVE EVERYTHING. Anything you think of, they've already got. They feed their obsessions like bloodthirsty sharks, impulse buying whatever strikes their fancy--the black light, the snow shoes, the whoopee cushion. The Mo-ped, the laser gun, the disappearing ink. What's left for anyone else to give them?

There are dozens of articles offering advice about shopping for men. "For that 'man about town' choose X-ray glasses, handcuffs or a can of spray-on hair." "What conspiracy nut wouldn't appreciate his own telephone tap detector?" "For the techno-geek try solar earmuffs, a medical robot, or one of the new virtual sex devices." But what if the guy on your list has dozens of those? It means you have to be original. Inventive. Even diabolical.

Be forewarned. The quest for a novel gift can result in tragedy. Like when we gave Daddy a trampoline last Christmas and then he got arrested. How were my sister and I to know he could bounce high enough to look in the neighbors' window? I don't know why Mr. Podgorovich made such a big deal about it. Mrs. Podgorovich didn't mind. Of course, Daddy's explanation was that he thought he saw a burglar, though the police had never heard of a burglar dressed in a bra and panties.

I told my brother Daddy should stick to The Baptist Standard. Giving him a subscription to Hustler was like pouring gasoline on a fire. But what do you expect from someone who is a borderline sex pervert himself? My brother is a slave to his passions. In 1994 authorities caught him gluing pictures of animal heads onto the models in a Victoria's Secret catalogue. Now I'm afraid for him to be around our Great Dane, Astro, and must always hire a chaperon when they will be alone together. Plus, I'm left with this nagging doubt about the Furby he asked for this Christmas. I suspect he's only interested in the head. I'm afraid Furby will end up dismembered like Tickle Me Elmo did in '96. And after I had to beat up all those other women to get my hands on one.

My husband Sonny is hardest of all to buy for. His only hobby is shining his shoes and, wouldn't you know, he has already spent over $1500 this month alone on the latest gadgets, including a mechanical buffer powered by a Weed Eater motor. Throughout our married life, I've tried to interest him in other things--gymnastics, jewelry making, taxidermy. All to no avail. A dozen jigsaw puzzles line his closet shelves unopened. Model car kits, a Captain Kirk costume, and a blow gun clutter the bathroom floor.

One Christmas I bought Sonny a karaoke machine. It was going to be our ticket to fame and fortune. We would be an overnight sensation, with his falsetto voice and my deep bass, like Sonny and Cher, only way more hip. But no. The sound of my lonesome voice singing "I Got You Babe," amplified over a three block area, makes me cry even to this day.

If it weren't for his damn shoes. Polishing polishing. Day and night. Night and day. I don't know how much more I can stand. And what did I receive last Christmas? Size 7 saddle Oxfords I could barely fit my big toe into. "But shining them is such a challenge," Sonny said.

So, what will I waste my money on this year? Chattering teeth? A magnetic nose ring? A stink bomb? A man should feel lucky if we buy him anything at all.