BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Most of you know I would never deliberately kill anybody. That, no matter how many times I have threatened to kill someone--my sister, for example--I would never actually do the deed. (At least, not on purpose.)

As a rule, cosmetologists are warm, supportive individuals, eager to help you with your cat problems, your split ends, your love IQ. As a beautician, I aspire to this ideal. Several of you even named your children after me--Bunchy, Victor, and the seven Charmaines. No sane person would name her daughter for a murderess. Surely you have noticed the dearth of Darlies and Karla Fayes in recent months. This is an argument in my defense, according to my lawyer, who asked the seven Charmaines to appear in court.

Is it my fault my sister drives me nuts?

Last year we suspected something when Kathy declared herself a Jehovah's Witness a few days before we were supposed to have Thanksgiving at her house. As a result, I was forced to feed 23 of our family's worst drunks, slobs and juvenile delinquents on zebra skins in my fabulous new "Exotic Casbah" dining room, which led to my nervous breakdown.

As you probably know, JWs don't do holidays. But this year Kathy agreed to grace us with her presence, as long as she didn't have to do anything. "I'm just here to eat," she said.

It grieves me to admit this, but I suspect that my sister is only religious when cooking's involved. After all, she celebrated her birthday at Sweaty Guys, the male strip club on Hwy. 4. She gave Jasper a carton of cigarettes for 6th grade graduation. And I can't tell you how many times I've caught her kissing my husband Sonny.

She showed up Thursday morning with all five kids and Ed, the Doberman, recently released from rabies quarantine. "I wish you hadn't fixed broccoli," she said, surveying the spread. "You know how gassy we all get. You knew Philicity was lactose intolerant. Why did you put cheese on everything?" Of course, Kathy did not bring so much as a deviled egg. While the rest of us slaved over stuffed celery and carrot sticks, she helped herself to the can of whipped cream, squirting it straight into her mouth, and ate all the cherries off the cheesecake.

"Technically, I'm not helping," she reminded us.

"We know," I said.

Frankly, I was too busy to notice when Kathy ate the entire dish of cranberry sauce before I even put it on the table. Or when she got ketchup on the chair. Stormy's wrestling coach, weighing in at 225 pounds, was at the door. Sonny still hadn't returned from the bottling plant's Thanksgiving breakfast, at which the boss customarily handed out cases of Old Red, which I was counting on serving from plastic champagne glasses. Destinee had invited some guy she met at the mall. And my brother said his parole officer might drop by.

The last thing on my mind was checking to make sure the turkey didn't get contaminated with hair color while it was thawing out. Leave it to my dad to start worrying about his roots on the busiest day of the year. I tried to keep Daddy's head over the left-hand sink but you know how men are, especially when there's a parade on tv. I just put it in the roasting pan, covered it with foil and stuck it in the oven. (The turkey, not Daddy's head.)

The autopsy revealed that Ed the Doberman died of peroxide poisoning. (That's what you get for hogging the innards.) The rest of us had our stomachs pumped and got home in time to watch the game. Except for my sister Kathy who had enjoyed an extra big portion of the platinum blond bird.

So now the DA has this silly idea about attempted murder. The words HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE, scrawled across every single page of my 1998 happy face diary, are a strike against me, according to my attorney.

I would advise you not to use thar word, even in your darkest hours, this holiday season.