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Dolly Parton sat across from Wendy Williams in that bright studio, blue top gleaming, hair doing what Dolly hair always did: arriving three minutes before she did. Wendy leaned in, already grinning. “Okay, I have to ask. Do you ever just… take it off? Like at night. At home. Pajamas. No cameras. No nothing.” Dolly laughed before the question even finished. “Oh, honey. You mean go to bed looking like a regular person?” “Yes!” “Well.” Dolly folded her hands, rings catching the lights. “I spend a lot of time in California, and California has a habit of shaking when it feels like it. I thought, if I have to run out in the street in the middle of the night, there are going to be cameras. News vans. Neighbors with phones. And I refuse to be on the eleven o’clock news looking like I lost a fight with a pillow.” Wendy screamed. “So you sleep in the makeup?” “I sleep ready,” Dolly said. “I don’t answer the door without hair and a little paint on. I keep a wig close enough that if the ground starts dancing, I can grab it on the way out. I might go wigless around the house in the morning with some rollers in, but I am not meeting an earthquake barefaced. That’s just poor planning.” Wendy slapped the desk. “The only emergency you’d consider it for?” Dolly thought for half a second. “If Carl(her husband) had a heart attack. And even then I’d have to really think about it. I’d pray for him and check a mirror. A woman can do two things at once.” The audience howled. Wendy wiped her eyes. “So that’s the secret,” Wendy said. “You’re not high-maintenance. You’re disaster-prepared.” Dolly pointed at her. “That’s right. Some people keep bottled water and batteries. I keep lipstick and a backup wig. If the world’s ending, I still want to look like Dolly Parton when it does.” Wendy sat back, delighted. “Iconic.” Dolly smiled, sweet and sharp at the same time. “Well, I worked too hard to look like this to let a little tremor catch me undone.”

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