BEAUTY SHOP TALK

by

Vicki Charmaine Bunch

Just when it's safe to walk the streets again, there's this awful haze. Scientists say it's shades of things to come--a world obscured by choking pollution. Bad air was at least partially to blame for Van Cliburn's plummet from the piano bench. It is responsible for yet another instance of my sister mistaking Sonny for her husband Floyd. And it's the reason I did the wrong steps to the line dance at Billy Bob's the other night. Women in nightclubs can be so bitchy.

As if all this isn't bad enough, Kenneth Copeland has announced the cancellation of the Eagle Mountain Motorcycle Rally for Christ, where Sonny and I planned to spend our second honeymoon this September.

We wanted to go some place where we wouldn't have to worry about criminals. Heaven knows Mexico's out of the question--even the cops are crooks down there. Thank goodness for our county's elected officials. Last week Sheriff Strange explained how the unmarked cars of off-duty warrant officers parked in their driveways overnight serve as a deterrent to crime. I myself have always been afraid of white cars. For example, one time I was thinking about holding my next door neighbor hostage. When I caught a glimpse of the plain jane white sedan parked in the driveway, it scared the devil out of me. I drove across town and robbed a bank instead.

Speaking of the devil, he is not the one who put a stop to the Motorcycles for Christ rally, though he had been trying to--according to Reverend Copeland--ever since the thing started in 1990. Nope--it was a direct order from upstairs. This time apparently God and the evil one saw eye to eye. The ministry's insurance agency breathed a sigh of relief, no doubt.

But now Sonny and I have to decide how to celebrate our anniversary--almost a century of wedded bliss. It seems like only yesterday we were saying our vows on the next-to-last row at the Eagle Drive In, where the wedding was held to commemorate many hot summer nights.

It was intermission. They had just shown Goldilocks and the 3 Sailors, which set the mood. The choir from Ajax Beauty College sang "Stairway to Heaven." (They had such lovely voices.) I'll never forget my first glimpse of Sonny in his baby blue tuxedo and platform shoes. He looked just like a Czechoslovakian John Travolta. Our vows, based on the poetry of Rod McKuen, were broadcast through speakers into all the cars. Naturally, my mother cried her head off. Hundreds of horns honked when the preacher said, "You may kiss the bride." It was so romantic. Then everyone threw popcorn as we drove away in Sonny's gold Wildcat with a white vinyl roof--off on our two day honeymoon to Wichita Falls.

If I had known then what I know now, would I have gone through with it?

Would I have married Sonny if I had known I'd never be able to break him of the habit of using a pair of underwear as a handkerchief? If I'd known how many times I'd see him put straws in his nostrils and say,"I hope I'm not boaring you." If I'd foreseen the day he would fall through the ceiling at the discount store, becoming a helpless invalid for two whole days?

There were lots of guys I could have married. Guys with names like Gates and Rockefeller. Bob Gates manages the hardware department at Wal-Mart. I made up the part about Rockefeller. Anyway, suitors were lined up the summer I succumbed to Sonny's charms. I could have been a socialite, married to the local pizza magnate. I could get free breadsticks. I could play bridge. I could get my eyeliner permanently tattooed instead of spending two hours every morning trying to draw it on with a shaking hand after I've polished off a gallon of coffee.

I don't know. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe it's the air. But even a pizza magnate looks dull up alongside a guy who whips out a pair of underwear every time he sneezes. And, as for a honeymoon destination, I guess we'll have to look for another event that combines motorcycles and Jesus. I just wish they would have it at the Eagle Drive In.