BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Don't think of me lying in a hospital for the criminally insane hooked up to tubes. Remember me in my prime, wrestling at Northside Coliseum. Don't bother to visit. Most people can't stand to see a sturdy woman in a vulnerable state.

It's all like a bad dream. Imagine being yelled at in public for drinking out of a bird bath. And then getting arrested for driving your spiked heel into the neck of your accuser.

It happened at the mall. My best friend Brandi and I were shopping for things to show how much we care. I was thirsty from all the brownies.

"Ma'am, I'm going to call a security guard," said a guy who appeared out of nowhere, a large man with a bag full of large pillows. I figured he was talking to somebody else and kept guzzling. "Ma'am, you're frightening the pigeons."

He was an easy take-down and, after all, he landed on the pillows. He makes the biggest mistake of his life when he goes for Brandi's little dog Fifi. I don't walk around in shoes like these just cause they feel good.

What a way to spend Valentine's. Oh, sure, they're having a party at the hospital with free candy and cards from the staff. And skits--I've been in rehearsal all week. I put on the Carmen Miranda outfit and whip myself into a state of hysterical gaiety. But it's all just an act--underneath I'm wearing houseshoes and have forgotten to use deodorant.

Maybe I should have lived my whole life as a pious choir girl, instead of winding up a groveling penitent in Capri pants, trying to navigate through this insane slop.

I try to think of happier times--1958, the year Anita Bryant won Miss America. Vonda Kay Van Dyke with her puppet Curly Q in 1964. Phyllis George and Moonshine, her lucky hermit crab. I pretend I'm in one of my favorite movies--Strike Me Pink. Queen of Outer Space. Las Vegas Hillbillies. Instead I'm stuck in Ladies of the Big House.

I miss Sonny. I imagine he's at the bowling alley. They call him Twinkle Toes.

Who doesn't want to put a little zing in your love life? Brandi had this magazine with a description of the perfect love nest. That's why we went to the mall--to buy the feathers and stuff. As if Sonny would notice rose petals in the bathtub. He'd just holler for the plunger. It's hard when you've been married for over seventy-five years and your spouse acts like he's headed for the last round-up. What do you give a guy like that? A guy who has everything, including a herniated disc?

After all, what does any man want? Pork rinds. Comfy underwear. To belch the loudest. I try to boost his self-esteem. Saying things like, "People are always mistaking Sonny for Arlen Specter." One time, knowing how proud he would be, I put on a wet suit, jumped off the pier, and attached a big stuffed Marlin to his fishing line. Another time I talked a bartender into carding him. Next thing I know, he's buying gum for every teenage girl in Hooters. I brag on him constantly. It makes him feel like a million bucks, but it doesn't do squat for me.

Anyway, I'm here at the hospital. Don't bother to visit but brownies would be nice.