BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

When astronaut Alan Shepard celebrated his 73rd birthday last week it suddenly dawned on me--I guess Vicki Charmaine Bunch won't be going to the moon.

Remember futuristic stories in Parade magazine telling us that by 1980 we'd be flying around with jet packs, taking family vacations to other planets and watching six TVs at the same time?

We would take a pill instead of eating. Robots would do all the work necessary to sustain life on Earth. Men would wear leisure suits, having very little to do. Women would clean toilet bowls with just the push of a button and keep their kitchens sparkling clean with fantastic labor saving devices.

Oh, for the good old days. Dreaming of a Strange New World.

If you're like me, you're DBT--disappointed by technology.

What a let down. Oddballs who believe the lunar landing was a big hoax filmed on a Hollywood set are better off than space cadet wanna' be's who got our hopes up only to have them dashed on the jagged rock of interplanetary reality.

A few of us are actually devolving in response to the psychic trauma of lowered expectations. Sure we've got Tang--but what about ray guns?

It really sunk in for amateur astronauts like me when the Russian Mars probe almost crashed on Australia last week. Gloriously blasting off from the Baikonur Cosmodrome only to plunk into the Pacific near Easter Island.

Like something out of a cheap sci-fi thriller, the President of the United States had to call Australian PM John Howard on the special red phone to warn of impending doom, since the Russians didn't know the phone number. The Pentagon offered high tech know-how, just in case the land-down-under got contaminated by radioactive plutonium.

Lucky for Earthlings, the ill-fated probe splashed down instead of crashed down.

Us brainiacs wear science like an amulet, to ward off spells and demons. In a world of unpredictability, in which at any moment we face annihilation, Science is our friend.

I dreamed of being the first beautician in space. I even hoped (vainly, it now appears) that the name of my shop, 2001--a Hair Odyssey, would attract the attention of officials at NASA. That was my goal. (Actually, I had two goals: first beautician in space and to meet Buck Owens.)

Sure, a few lucky dogs get to live rent-free on the space station and ride around on the shuttle, but what about the rest of us poor saps stuck on Earth with regular gravity and plain old air?

You can bet NASA's not going to pick your cousin Ed Ray to fly into the Oort cloud or colonize Jupiter's icy moon. Face it, eggs heads at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory think space is too good for folks like you and me.

I believe that everybody, regardless of race, religion or food allergies, should have an equal chance to go to space. Chance is the key word. That's why I propose a National Space Lottery--SPLOTTO. Even at only a buck apiece, SPLOTTO ticket sales would bring in enough money to retire the national debt, and think of the publicity!

Who wants to go to space, you ask? Who doesn't! Especially with astrophysicists and astrologers alike predicting the end of civilization any day now when a comet or asteroid collides with Earth.

Sit down today and write to the guys in Washington, demanding SPLOTTO. And, while you're at it, don't forget to mention ray guns.