BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Last week thousands of Texas girls received the letter every mother dreams of--an invitation to enter the glamourous world of pageants. In this case, the 28th Annual Texas National Teen-Ager Scholarship Program which will be held in Waco this June. The winner gets a trip to Opryland and $1,000. Just fill out the application, attach $15 and a snapshot, and send it in.

Of course, us Bunches are no strangers to the pageant circuit. And, although they give a trophy for Photogenic, the National Teen-Ager Scholarship Program bills itself as "not a beauty pageant." It doesn't have a swimsuit competition, which was a big disappointment, as I had just finished paying off Destinee's tattoo removal. Nonetheless, it helps to clean up because "entrants must be in good health and of good moral character."

Lucky for Destinee, demonstrating a talent or writing a 150 word essay is optional and doesn't count in the overall scoring. Contestants vie for scholarships to Jerry Falwell's Liberty University in Lynchberg, Virginia, as well as some schools I've never heard of, like the University of LaVerne. Representatives from well-known universities show up for a college fair, like the one held for area high school students at Amon G. Carter Jr. Exhibits Hall every year.

If Destinee is one of the 90 girls chosen to compete, she'll have to come up with $395, an evening gown, and a couple of other outfits. The application suggests sharing this "sponsor fee" among businesses, relatives and friends. Unfortunately, everyone we know is tapped out after my most recent pageant attempt at the mall.

Entering would be so therapeutic. My precious Destinee has barely recovered from the trauma of the Little Miss Goat Head Pageant when she was 10. How ironic that I--a licensed cosmetologist--would be out of commission, which meant my husband Sonny had to set and style that poor little thing's hair. Ever since then, I never run the vacuum cleaner before any important event, especially around standing water.

If only we had known the effect that crunchy little flip (and consequent rejection by pageant judges) would have on our daughter's emerging femininity. I would have gladly paid one of my arch rivals to roll her hair and then Sonny would only have had to rat it and spray it.

He feels terrible, as any father would. "She looked like a zombie--a zombie with weird hair--tottering down the runway. She seemed too numb to hear the boos and cat calls."

But she did hear them. Practically every night she wakes up screaming.

The experience affected every aspect of our lives. Even the incident with Destinee's fish is connected. I'll never forget the way the man at the pet store sounded when he called to tell me Destinee was there with her fish bowl. "It won't swim," she kept repeating, as a Pepperidge Farm Goldfish cracker floated on the surface.

I should have been the one to fix her hair.

"Don't blame yourself, you were unconscious," said my psychiatrist, Dr. Arnold Zinfrang.

But I can't stop feeling guilty. Granted, getting electrocuted is no picnic, but letting a pre-teen beauty queen down is like getting a hundred stickers in your sock. It bugs the hell out of you--especially when she winds up with stage fright which, in the World of Pageants, is the same as a death sentence.

The Texas National Teen-ager letter was like the answer to a prayer. I called Dr. Zinfrang as soon as I opened it. "Isn't this is just what the doctor ordered?" I asked. "Hair of the dog and all?"

"It could be the key to her recovery," he said. "Especially if she wins the trip to Opryland."

Now I have to convince Destinee. I told her we might get a chance to meet the hip new band, The Clark Experience. The last I saw of her she was disappearing over the hill on the back of her boyfriend's Allstate.

"Each contestant gets the free gift bag with logo," I yelled.