BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Every mother dreads the day her child publishes a tell-all expose'. You know what I mean--the day she bares her soul (and your derriere) to the world. You made her wear granny panties while you wore lacy thongs. You stole her boyfriend when she was twelve. You dressed her up as Tammy Faye Bakker for Halloween when she wanted to be Strawberry Shortcake.

How she was embarrassed when you dyed her hair for special occasions. The way she had to drag you down to the beach on a towel "like the Queen of Sheba." The time she called 911 for a joke and when the police arrived, they thought your house had been ransacked--but that's the way it always looked.

How she secretly despised mother-daughter beauty pageants. How you "forced" her to get her ears pinned back. How you attacked her third grade teacher with a knife.

After all you've done for her--spending your last dollar on Pampers when you were out of beer--this is the thanks you get.

Stormy's autobiography, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young White Trash Girl, is scheduled to hit the shelves next month. If the book jacket is any indication, it's going to set this town on it's ear, the way Peyton Place did. "Living in the Bunch house was like being in a cult. We mostly dined on peanut butter and the tv was always broke . . . . Mama made fun of mine and Destinee's idols--Puff Daddy, Judge Judy and Randy Macho Man Savage--but Mom had pictures of __________ on every wall in the house . . . . Whenever Mother bought ice cream we got so excited but by the time we got home from school it was all gone . . . . "

There's a collection of Bunch family photos--Grandpa's mug shot, me getting out of the shower and the newspaper picture taken when Sonny's soda pop truck rolled over a gas pump and blew up half the town. There are charts and graphs with our IQ's, shoe sizes and the weights of every living relative. With some, such as Aunt LaVinda whose cell is next to Darlie Routier's in Huntsville (Gatesville?)--and who is rumoured to have lost 125 pounds--it's sheer conjecture but that didn't stop Stormy.

A child's switchblade is like a serpent's tooth. Believe me, I should know. I sold blood to pay for Stormy's clogging lessons so we could perform together in the Goat Head Mall Mother-Daughter Beauty Pageant. I was so anemic I collapsed midway through "Achy Breaky Heart" but we still won second place. I passed up the chance to meet Wayne Newton and the Dalai Lama because I didn't want to miss one of Stormy's wrestling matches. I risked my life chasing down and beating up the girl who ran against Stormy for student council.

But no--she doesn't appreciate any of that. "I hated pageants and the plastic surgery they entailed. I wanted to be a diesel mechanic and not the dolled-up bimbo Mother fantasized about . . . . When Mother called Mr. Potter and said she was going to kill him, I was so embarrassed. I bet that's why I got a D in Chorus . . . . I wished I had a regular mother, the kind like Mrs. Cole who didn't wear a wig and hated Led Zeppelin."