BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

My wet set customer Emmazona Melviney is expecting her first great grandbaby. The mother-to-be, who has spent the past nine months sweating over the baby's name, unplugged the phone and quit going to the door when Grandma got a little too freewheeling with her baby naming advice.

Emmazona is a stately woman, and used to getting her way. Against her husband's wishes, she named her own twin girls Eunie and Bunie after a couple of distant aunts in hopes of a substantial inheritance which, unfortunately, went to something called Old Boggy Gator Park instead.

Sitting under the dryer, Emmazona loudly related her story. "You can't name that poor little thing Madeline, I told them. I used to know a Madeline and she had the biggest feet you've ever seen."

She gestured at Misty Dawn, tied up with another manicure client. "Tell that girl if she wants a tip, she better get over here now. I've got my Bible study today." Lighting a cigarette, she continued. "If it was a boy, they were going to call him Bob Ed Victor, after the two grandpas and Victor on 'The Young and the Restless.' I could go with Victor, but Dusty's father Ed is a no-account drunk. You might just as well fill that baby's bottle with rot gut."

I can sympathize with the mother-to-be. When I was trying to think up Stormy and Destinee, you wouldn't believe all the perfectly good names that got nixed. My mother was worst enemies with a woman named Frankie. Couldn't use Star cause my sister knew a prostitute named Star. Sonny's old girlfriend was named Wynetta, so Wynetta was out. Finally I was down to names like Stink Dog, Snakelips, and Chalk Boy.

Parents understand the awesome responsibility of choosing a name. They know that even if they figure out the perfect name, the kid will probably think of a name he likes better. Like that guy who changed his name to Hi Hitler.

A name ought to be melodic. Placido Domingo, now there's a pretty name. Sonny Bunch, my husband's name, kind of rolls off your tongue. Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Or Slobodan Milosevic. Or Benny Hinn.

When I was a sophomore in high school I called myself Charmaine Fontaine. We had a girl band called the Fontanels, and all of us changed our last names to Fontaine. The only place we ever played was my thirteen year old cousin's birthday dance. His name was Little Ronnie and he looked like the kind of kid who would grow up to be a singing evangelist, which he did. I like to think our band is what got him interested in the music field, for he truly has a great gift.

My best friend Loraine Fontaine, who never did change her name back even after she married, had a little son she ended up naming after her dog.

"He was just like a son to me," Loraine said, recalling Jasper, the black toy poodle she had for twelve years before her children were born. "All the time I had him, I hoped someday he would become a real little boy like that puppet Pinocchio."

Loraine wiped away a tear. "Nine months to the day after he got hit by the garbage truck, I gave birth to Jasper, Jr. The minute I laid eyes on him, I knew who it was. Even his fur--I mean hair--looked the same. And there was no doubt about their personality."

Jasper, Jr. has been studied by experts at the Institute for Psychic Research in San Diego. At the age of five he began recounting traumatic past life experiences such as following a badger down a deep hole, chasing cars, and almost drowning in the septic tank. I get goosebumps just thinking about it.

Names tell you so much about a person. People with regular, boring names sometimes wind up with colorful nicknames like Freight Train, Pinkie or Mutt. I envy them. Having a nickname means that somebody took the time to notice your special "something," the spark that makes you YOU, even if it's something like Stinky.

There are scads of nicknames to chose from when a person has lots of special qualities, and you would think your husband, of all people, could come up with something. Blondie. Big Legged Woman. Good Speller. Sonny used to call me Hot Tamale before the kids were born. Now it's just, "Hey, you, where's my bowling shirt?" But everybody just calls me, "Hey, you." Not Blondie. Or Cutie Pie. Or Gorgeous Woman. A rude man on a bicycle gave me a nickname one day but he didn't know me well enough to see my special something.