BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

I get the willies just thinking about Christmas and the vile creatures with whom we will spend the holidays whether we want to or not.

No, I'm not talking about my sister and her family.

I'm talking about the insects, worms and rodents who make my life a living hell. The vermin who party all day while I slave away at the beauty shop to keep a roof over their heads. The scorpion in my house shoe. The rat in the commode. The hookworm in the cat box, happy as a lark, oblivious to my suffering.

They would laugh if they knew how I wish I could have a party myself. I'd invite diplomats and VIP's--guests who know how to appreciate a sensitive, hard-working and passionate woman. Oh, how we'd dance. I'd rent a Stink-Matic and suck the fleas and furballs out of the carpet. I'd make a beautiful ball gown out of an old beach towel. I'd mix up a vat of cheese dip. But probably only mice would come. And beavers. And I would get depressed.

Rodents and I go back a long way.

I'll never forget the night I killed a mouse with my bare foot, accidentally stepping on it while baking a quiche. The quiche burned and it was months before I could set "foot" in the kitchen. Even now, I barely can.

How I'd love to invite the entire family over for some figgy pudding, but if Grandma Bunch's path converged with that of a hapless rodent, it would be a disaster of immense proportions.

Horrible as the mouse encounter was, it's nothing compared to waking up Christmas morning face to face with the dead squirrel on your husband's pillow.

Trust me, it's life-altering. I've had to take muscle relaxants ever since.

It would be grand to have everyone over to sing carols and light the mistletoe, but there's an animal decomposing in the kitchen wall--some poor thing headed for me Lucky Charms. It's only natural that our infrequent guests would conclude the smell emanates from Sonny or young Jasper or even one of the girls. (Not that they're blameless in this respect.)

Nope--I'm not lazy or inhospitable. I'd really like to throw a big shebang. A gala. Only I'd hate to expose everyone to bad smells.

Speaking of Sonny--what, you may ask, could make me abandon my resentment of his Thanksgiving tryst with my loose-moral'd sister? Was it the St. John's Wort, recommended two-to-one over common table salt by readers of this column?

Yes, indeedy do. I hardly ever freak out any more. For example, if you told me something like, "Soylent green is people," it wouldn't even faze me.

But I put the wort to an even tougher test.

Is there any sight more horrible than that of a man exploring his nose while eating sardines? In your wildest dreams, could such a sight inspire forgiveness? Or (gasp) love?

Maybe if the man had just saved your life by pointing out the weevils in your corn flakes. Or if he volunteered to lower himself into the wall to retrieve the dead possum. Or knew a way to get rid of the fire ants in the dishwasher.

But what if he just sat there--the same old dumb guy--but your judgment was clouded by wort?

If you're like me, you'd probably figure--what the hell. It's Christmas.