BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

It's that time again. When cat fights erupt in department store aisles. When family members you haven't seen in decades show up on your doorstep expecting cocktails and canapes. When you walk into a room and catch your sister French kissing your husband.

But this year is extra special because people all over the world are throwing fabulous parties to celebrate the millennium. Perth, Costa Rica, Salt Lake City--where will I be December 31? On stage at the Axel Convention Center, vying for the coveted title of Miss Millennium.

The Miss Millennium Pageant is different from traditional beauty pageants. Judges award high scores for altruism and decorating savvy, qualities pageant founder Fabio Jones hopes to see more of in the next ten centuries. "The holidays are the perfect time to showcase these ideals," he told a roomful of pageant hopefuls, including me and my daughter Stormy who looks like me except her head is smaller. Fabio winked at her, as if to say, "Your mama sure is hot."

My daughter and I are both hot babes, if you don't mind beer bellies, which we plan to correct as soon as we can find a plastic surgeon who will do two for the price of one. Although my head size gives me a slight advantage, I realized right away that if I am going to beat Stormy, I'll have to do it with good deeds and good decorating. Not to brag, but I have a magic touch for making a silk purse out of a sow's ear. The dirty poodle, the housewife who has let herself go, the rat-infested school cafeteria--in my hands they become gorgeous things.

I hate to gossip but my daughter has never even served on a decorating committee. She hangs a few lights on her Ricky Martin shrine and calls it Christmas. What about the other 364 days of the year? She doesn't even own a leprechaun or a vampire head. Such a disappointment to her dear mother who made every day a holiday when she was growing up.

Still, Stormy is younger and some judges prefer that. She has a youthful, under-developed beauty--the way a newborn calf is cute but, face it, it's no cow. I, on the other hand, have the rugged, shopworn beauty appreciated by the great European masters, guys like Slobodan Milosevic and Boris Yeltsin. I've been around the block, if you know what I mean.

Stormy is upset. "Mom, I asked you to sign me up and the next thing I know you're competing against me," she whined.

"Can I help it if I don't want to go gentle into that good night like some pathetic housewife in a velour jogging suit?" I told her. "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen." I was busy molding 30 pounds of ground beef into little footballs--a super way to stay in shape--plus, you're sure to score a touchdown with the captain of the team. Stormy's never even seen the inside of a locker room.

I sure hope I win. The pageant winner gets to push a wheelbarrow through Axel Hardware and keep everything she can load up in five minutes. I've had my eye on that drill for weeks.

It would be a shame to go out of this century the same way I came in--beet red and squalling my head off. I would hate to embarrass Stormy.