BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

By now, you all have heard about the proposed change to the Miss America Pageant rules which would allow a contestant to just sign a piece of paper stating she is not married and doesn't have children--instead of taking a blood oath that she has never been married or pregnant. It was a done deal last week until officials from state pageants threw a hissy fit.

The rule change focuses the spotlight as never before on the true source of a woman's de-beautification. It's not groveling day in and day out at some menial, half-ass job. It's not tooth decay, a bad attitude, or an unsightly wart. It's not age or big thighs or blue eye shadow. It's kids. Grubby fingered barbarians that spring from your or someone else's loins. Once you've got 'em, forget about being a beauty queen. You're a dirty diaper, a burp-stained vestige of the gorgeous sweet-smelling rose you once were. At least in the eyes of your husband--who is himself the other leading cause of de-beautification.

"Just to be on the safe side," said my friend, Doris, "Maybe they should put a lifetime ban any woman convicted of murder. The temptation's bound to be great for a woman on the edge."

I knew who she was talking about. Myrna Loin, whose husband hasn't felt the same way about her since she gave birth to quadruplets six years ago. Myrna, a former Miss Axel, was on her way over to watch the Miss America Pageant.

She arrived in pink foam rubber rollers and a faded Garfield t-shirt. Her eyes were puffy and red. "Brad won't come near me with a ten foot pole," she cried. "Ever since he saw those heads sticking out between my legs."

"It's the harlot-Madonna thing," I said, offering her a slice of pizza and a Kleenex. "Men love harlots but they wouldn't want the mother of their children to be one."

"He goes to New Jersey Nights twice a day," said Myrna. "And treats me like his grandmother. For my birthday he gave me a tube of BenGay and the Clapper."

"The honeymoon's over," said Doris.

"The other night I was brushing my teeth in my bra and panties," said Myrna. "Brad covered his eyes with a towel and said, 'Woman, have you no decency?'" She wiped away a tear.

"It's okay for moms to be beautiful," I said. "In a heavenly sort of way. Like when you're wearing a bathrobe that makes you look like the Virgin Mary in the Christmas pageant."

"Speaking of pageants--" said Doris, turning on the tv. She scowled and took a drag off her cigarette. 'They wouldn't be showing that much leg if they never had time to shave their legs. And how come there's no peanut butter on their evening gowns?"

"Doris has had six pieces of pizza and Myrna, you've only eaten the olives off yours," I said. But at least she had quit crying. In fact, she was the calmest I had seen her in years--almost zombie-like. She couldn't take her eyes off the five finalists.

"They wouldn't be smiling like that if their kids had head lice," she said, with a steely eyed stare.