This beauty queen had balls

"I have a story for you," my editor said, tossing a scrap of paper onto my desk.

"There's a former Miss Arkansas living in the homeless shelter."

And so on March 29, 2007, I headed over to the shelter to meet Bunnie, who competed in the 1977 Miss America pageant.

She was vivacious, charming and frank.

“Drinking ended up being a best friend for me," she told me. “Alcohol gave me courage -- it was the only thing that never disappointed me.”

Bunnie talked freely about the events that led to her homelessness -- two divorces, her son's departure for college, a tumble down the stairs that left her housebound and lonely.

Life had disappointed her, she said. When she walked off that stage in 1977, all sorts of options had glittered before her. Always, Bunnie said, she chose wrong.

A couple of drinks wiped these doubts clean away. But two turned so quickly to four and four so quickly to falling-down drunk.

She sold her nice, middle-class home in the suburbs and moved into an apartment, living off the equity for the next year.

Eventually, the money ran out. For six months, Bunnie lived out of her car. An accident and chronic digestive illness landed her in the hospital. After recovering at her brother's house, Bunnie decided she had to deal with things on her own. She researched homeless shelters.

In early 2007, still thin and frail, Bunnie moved into a homeless shelter, determined to make a new life for herself. The shelter's director told me how each day, Bunnie had boarded a bus and looked for jobs, how she had faithfully filled out job applications and asked repeatedly for someone to give her chance.

By March, she was working part time at a spa. On the day I showed up, she was about to pick up the car she'd just bought. She was proud, so proud of that used car.

It wouldn't be long before she got own place, Bunnie told me.

This is Bunnie on the day I interviewed her:



A few weeks after my story ran, I heard from Bunnie. She had gotten a second part-time job working behind the cosmetics counter at a department store. "I'm going to get that apartment soon," she said.

Over the next several months, I heard from other people as well, people who called to tell me they didn't expect Bunnie to make it.

"I heard she's drinking again," one woman said. "I just thought you should know."

"Word is, she's hanging around some bad company," another called to report.

I didn't understand what they expected me to do -- stake out the shelter to see what Bunnie did in her free time?

One day, an editor came over with a piece of paper.

"Someone called to say Bunnie's on the street again," he said.

I was annoyed. It seemed that people wanted her to fail. Why? Because she was still pretty? Because she still had a feisty since of humor and hadn't let circumstances beat her into hopelessness? (Example: On the day of our interview, I asked what she hoped to do after leaving the shelter. Bunnie grinned, struck an exaggerated beauty queen pose, and drawled: "You mean, what are my aspirations?")

I wanted her to make it. I believed she would.

Seven months later, I took my daughter to a birthday party at a cosmetology school. The girls, dressed up as princesses or fairies, were going to get their hair and makeup done during the festivities.

Ringlets were fashioned and sprayed. Then the girls lined up to have their makeup done by a petite woman with dark hair and a feisty sense of humor. "Now you know, I was Miss Arkansas in 1977," she said, applying shimmering gloss to a little girl's lips.

"So I have lots of practice at this."

I gaped.

"Bunnie?!"

She turned around. "Well, hey, girl! How are you doing?"

Hurriedly, we caught up. Bunnie said she was enrolled in the cosmetology school and set to graduate in the next year. She still worked in cosmetics at the department store part time and was hoping to add hairdressing to her list of jobs there, which would allow her to get insurance.

"Oh, and I'm in my own place," she said excitedly.

(Here's a pic from that party.)


(photo by kris)

We hugged and she pressed two business cards into my hand, one card for each of her occupations.

And then she went back to doing makeup -- this time for my little girl, who stared in admiration at the pretty woman who used to be a princess.