BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

I've been wearing a disguise to hide my shame ever since my husband Sonny was exposed as a frequenter of Krystal's XXX. By the looks of it, the porn store has been weakening the bonds of holy matrimony all over Axel. Half the couples in town have signed up for Brother Dickey Webb's $250 marriage enrichment seminar. That corresponds to the numbers of patrons of Krystal's which were identified by Brother Dickey and the Do-Gooder Brigade on the basis of their license plates.

I know they were just doing their Christian duty, but they sure have stirred up a mess of trouble. My brother's facing probation revocation for possession of pornography. My cousin Little Ronnie, a talented singing evangelist, has broken his engagement to the lovely Donnetty, leaving her a heart-broken wretch. He admitted his involvement with an aging Vegas showgirl, Pinky Dilfeather, who works at Krystal's.

Much as I'd like to hole-up in my air conditioned bedroom with a case of Little Debbie's, I realized it was up to me to restore my family honor. But how?

I consulted my friend Brandi, the only person in town still speaking to me after Sonny brought shame on the Bunch family.

"I wish this campaign of shame had never started," I said. "If only Brother Dickey wasn't such a godly man."

"Brother Dick is more like it, from what I hear," said Brandi. "Haven't you heard the rumors about his tattoo?"

Maybe it would pay to do a little investigating. To travel to the wrong side of the tracks and dig up dirt on the cleanest man in Axel.

My first stop was Fat Man's Tattoos.

"Hey, Honey Hams," I purred in stiletto heels and stretch pants. "You must be in town for the sumo wrestling championship."

Fat Man was a Vietnam vet, an ex-Hell's Angel, and a member of the 700 Club.

And he had an axe to grind with Brother Dickey Webb.

"That s.o.b. owes me fifty bucks," he said when I showed him a picture of the grinning preacher. "He wanted a pink feather where the sun don't shine. I don't do that sorta' thing."

The fat man grimaced. "Told him he's have to settle for a bald eagle. On his arm. Then all he has is four dollars, the sorry lowlife."

A fundamentalist with a kinky fetish? Suddenly it hit me--pink--feather--Pinky Dilfeather!

I hurried to Krystal's. I was greeted by the sight of Sonny pushing a dolly loaded with Ol' Red.

"I told you I come here on official business," he said.

How I longed to take him home and stuff him full of mouth-watering meat loaf but there wasn't time.

As I entered Krystal's I tried to focus my eyes straight ahead to avoid looking at the dildoes and other things on the shelves.

Pinky, at the register, was a faded beauty with a hacking cough and too much rouge. I asked her about the preacher.

"I've been waiting for somebody to uncover his secret past," she said, pointing to an old photo on the wall. "They called him Tappin' Dickey back then. The Fred Astaire of Wichita Falls."

There was Pinky herself in a daring rhinestone brassiere, standing on the shoulders of--could it be?

"He left a wife and kids to follow me to Vegas. For a while we were the hottest act on the strip." Pinky wiped away a tear. "When the crowds dried up, he couldn't handle it. Been pestering me ever since."

"Can I borrow this picture?" I said.

Things have quieted down since Brother Dickey left town in a hurry to check on his orphanages in the Caribbean.

Sonny and I are two lovebirds, just like the good old days before the shame campaign. He looks so debonair in the rented tux he'll wear to usher at Little Ronnie's wedding next month.

And guess who Pinky asked to be her maid of honor.