BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Love is the emotion that a woman always feels for a poodle, and sometimes for a man.

--George Jean Nathan

Ain't love grand? Last week teacher Mary Kay LeTourneau, the Seattle teacher who served time in jail for child rape, was re-arrested after she was discovered in a parked car with the 14 year old father of her child. Officers' suspicions were aroused by the car's steamed up windows and bright headlights.

Apparently, politics isn't the only profession wherein strange bedfellows are made.

Mary Kay's adventure reminds me of the time back in high school that Sonny and I almost got asphyxiated when we were parking with the heater on and a bad muffler. Lucky for us, a policeman who was offended by the "Bite my Butt" bumper sticker on Sonny's Wildcat was issuing a ticket for public obscenity when he saw our bodies--with my stark white Maidenform bra fully exposed. For months I wished he'd let me die.

Sonny never takes me parking any more.

Like millions of Americans, I don't expect this be to an exciting and passionate Valentine's, except for when I hit the after-holiday candy sales. It's not like I haven't done my part to try and spice things up. I've bought kinky stuff like the breast-shaped coffee mug I gave Sonny last year. No matter what I do, all he ever gives me is a six pack of beer. And it hurts my feelings to suspect that every time we kiss he's thinking about Pamela Lee or that woman who works at the laundromat in Lamesa.

I'll take the beer and buy my own damn candy.

* * *

Even if Valentine's Day makes you want to strangle yourself with a sock, chances are you're overlooking someone who loves you very much. Someone who stares at you all day long, hoping you will scratch him behind the ears. Someone who doesn't lock you out of the bathroom but politely does his business out of doors. Someone who barks at the vacuum cleaner. Man's (and woman's) best friend--the noble poodle, or substitute dog.

The one who doesn't spurn you when your lipstick's crooked, or make you feel bad when your shoes don't match. Who loves you bald, fat, toothless, when you've got a zit. He loves you with a stopped-up nose and when your stretch pants don't fit. To him you are Big Lady with that certain smell--of garlic, gum and stinky shoes. You have a piercing laugh and practice Russian. You snore. He adores you.

If he were human he would be an overly attentive waiter named Jeff who refills your wineglass till you pass out drunk. He'd take you any day over fleas, a tapeworm, ticks. He thinks you're every bit as hot as the Spice Girls, Pamela Lee, the Mona Lisa. As saintly as Mother Theresa. Princess Di.

He sleeps between your feet, or draped across your chest. He'd never leave you for a younger woman. (You've had him fixed.) He's cheap to feed.

Will you be his Valentine? And buy him a little vinyl raincoat that looks like a tuxedo? Will you rub his tummy? Take him to the monster truck rally?

Whether his name is Pepe or Shep, Earl or Pierre, he's the constant companion at the bedside of the forlorn, forsaken, love sick. Your most devoted sweetheart.

Cheer