BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Love flash. The Axel City Council has voted to observe the festival of Lupercalia, the ancient fertility rite in which Roman bachelors drew the names of eligible women out of a big urn and cohabited with them the rest of the year. The holiday, celebrated on Feb. 15, was officially replaced with Valentine's Day during the Middle Ages, in honor of that martyred enabler of pathetic codependents determined to get hitched come hell or high water.

Thank goodness this town has come to its senses. Leave your love life to chance. All you have to do is look at the divorce rate to see that romantic love just isn't working. Sure, a gal might be repulsed by the guy with her name in his fist but she'll grow to tolerate him, as all married people must. With a bath and a new pair of underwear, he'll clean up fine. And maybe you can even train him to bring your paper and slippers.

Romantic love is a myth, phony baloney like that story about the stork and babies. I believed in the stork and look where it got me--a size 9 shoe and a stomach like a deflated basketball.

Like many stupid girls, I fell for the romance thing. Until hearts and flowers turned into intestines and weeds. And cute little Cupid turned into a naked man with a hairy back!

When holy matrimony ends, all you're left with is the hole.

I guess some people are able to keep the fires ablaze. If only Sonny could be like Michael Webb, editor of the RoMANtic Newsletter and founder of Resurrect Romance Week, August 8-14. According to his website, www.theromantic.com, Webb has been "dubbed 'The World's Most Romantic Man' by media around the globe."

Some of Webb's suggestions? "Fax a copy of your hand to their office so they can 'hold' it while you are apart." "Go to a gurgling brook and race leaves or rubber duckies." "Put love notes and Hershey Kisses in your sweetheart's box of cereal." "Use chalk to write a loving welcome home message on the sidewalk." "Brush her hair for ten minutes before going to sleep."

I would be happy if Sonny would just help me pull a tick off my head. He already writes notes on the sidewalk but the police make him wash them off. He leaves things in the cereal but who wants a weevil for breakfast?

I suggested he fax his hand to me but Sonny drives a soda pop truck all day and doesn't have access to a fax machine. He said he could ask the receptionist at the bank to let him use the one in the lobby when he delivers her weekly case of Ol' Red. But first he would have to make a copy of his hand on her copier and then she might expect some kind of discount which he isn't authorized to give. Plus, I don't have a fax machine at the beauty shop and I would have to borrow one to receive Sonny's fax.

Maybe I'll ask Sonny to trace his hand on a piece of notebook paper tonight when he gets home from work. And then we can race leaves in the kitchen sink while I'm rinsing the dishes.

I wonder who would draw my name if I put it in the bucket? Maybe he would have a fax machine.