You Bleached What?
Uncle Dusty had a customer who was wild, wild, wild. This wild woman, Lilly, lived with an even wilder man-child in the ’60s, when living together had not exactly caught on, especially in the mid South. The self-righteous club members looked down upon it.
I still remember the looks on the self-righteous customers’ faces when Lilly came in for her appointments. They were stern, disapproving, and very uptight. It was quite funny to watch, especially Mrs. Hotshitz! Mrs. Hotshitz’s face would contort into that of another being when Lilly walked in. Lilly knew it. We loved watching the two of them. Lilly always wiggled a little more in front of Mrs. Hotshitz, putting on quite a show and almost driving the woman into stoic convulsions. Mrs. Hotshitz’s righteous indignation was hysterical.
Luscious Lilly, also commonly known as Whoretta, was an aged, loud, flamboyant, scantily dressed porn star wannabe. She had shoulder-length bleached blonde hair, and she wore entirely too much makeup. Her eyelashes looked like Daisy Duck’s, and her lips were painted on so big that she looked like she had sucked an orange through a picket fence. She always wore just enough clothing to keep her out of jail. My good friend Craig said, “If I woke up next to her and didn’t have a heart attack, I would make a new door getting out of there as fast as I could.”
Ole’ Luscious came in regularly to Uncle Dusty’s salon to have her hair bleached. She was a good customer—easy to please. My god, she was just plain easy. She looked like a cross between Tammie Fay Baker and Julia Child.
Her lover/co-star, George, also known as Whore-Hey, was fifty-ish. They both had to work very hard at looking young. George wore open shirts with his graying chest hair all tangled up in ridiculously large gold chains. He dyed his hair jet black and slicked it down with grease. He looked like a hit man from the south side of hell. All the bling in the world couldn’t distract from George’s pruney face, his discount store-bought teeth, and his shiteatin’ grin. What a look for the movies he produced! It must have been horror-porn.
Let me run as far away from those people as humanly possible!
Their house, known as the Bunny Hutch, was kind of a mini Playboy mansion in our small Bible Belt town. It seems they made “movies” in the hutch. Those movies were certainly not PG unless P was for Porn and G was Good God Almighty! The grape vine reported there was a sign above the doorbell that read: “Don’t ring if you don’t swing.”
The grapevine also reported there were mirrors on the ceiling, a round bed, cameras, extra people, etc. You get the picture—orgy. We all knew they had a huge fake volcano in their front yard that actually belched smoke. The whole town could see it. There were no walls around their place. There should have been. If we had a tour bus, that place would have been on it for places you never want to see again. You would not need to; that sight, indelibly etched in your brain, would never go away.
One fine day, the drug-addled Luscious Lilly screeched into Salon de Pouf. She grabbed Uncle Dusty by the smock, yanked him to the back room, and closed the swinging louvered doors. Dusty told us later that she cornered him, threw her skirt over her head before he could whistle Dixie, and then squealed, “What do you think?”
You would not believe the shrieks coming from that man! It was downright frightening! We all ran over each other to the supply room to see if she had killed him. We could hear her laughing with delight and him just howling like a wolf. Their yelps sounded like a mating ritual between a hyena and a mountain lion.
“Platinum Pussycats!” he shrieked. We didn’t know how much more torture he could take or what she had unleashed back there. We had to save him! We were almost too frightened to look! We snatched the swinging doors open and observed a very happy man.
Much to Uncle’s horror and stunned delight, Whoretta had bleached her crotch and carved her pubic hair into the shape of a heart. She proudly displayed her newly coiffed nether region right there in the supply room to dear Uncle Dusty and anyone who wanted a peek.
I had no idea that was possible. After all, I was only nineteen, it was the ’60s, and my grandfather was a Baptist preacher. Good Lord! Playing poker was a sin according to Baptist dogma, and so was dancing and drinking. Bleaching your snatch … priceless! I just do not know under what category that fell.
Holy snatchola! I just knew I would go to hell!
Nevertheless, blondes do seem to have more fun … with many people! And on film!
