The Annals of Being a Bridesmaid #4

Another entry from our best of collection. Despite the description, this is one where we wished she had also sent in a picture!

No one at my friends' wedding looked like anything out of “The Wedding Crashers!” Why do all movies about weddings portray the bridal party as randy co-eds ready for their lessons in sexual exploration? Trust me, the only exploration I felt like doing after seeing what the beautician at the parlor had done to my face and hair was to find a weapon that I could assault her with and then turn it on myself to put me, and everyone who was viewing my new face, out of misery.



Now I began by telling this competent cosmetologist that my hair was different than anything she had probably ever encountered. I actually had three separate types of hair on my head. On the sides of my face, above my ears, the strands were smooth and almost straight. I didn’t disclose that the reason for this oddity amongst the rest of my nappy roots was due to the fact that since I was coordinated enough to manipulate my digits I had a nervous habit of twirling my hair in those spots. To this day, I am known to get two big strands on both sides of my head going, twirling faster and faster depending on how hard I’m concentrating, until it appears that I might take flight.



Now, for the second part of my hair, we will be moving towards the back of my head around the nape of my neck. The hair that lines my neck is nice, soft and wavy. It has been shielded from the torturous rays of the sun and has had the benefit of years of hibernation, protected from the elements by the enormous mass that lies above. What does in fact lie above has amazed friends and acquaintances alike for all my life. One observer mentioned that it actually required its’ own zip code. The best way to describe it is to say that if you could genetically combine the hair from a horse, a wire-haired fox terrier, and a kitchen broom, you might have a close resemblance to what type of stuff inhabits the crown on my head.



Now that my beautician had received the full follicle story she could begin her masterpiece. She assured me that she had handled many a head of hair like mine and dove into my coif with gusto and determination (ok, is it just me or did that just sound like a lesbian porn reference?) She began by working from the bottom up, which worried me as I began to have visions of mushroom-like clouds of wiry strands whose results could, if not wearing radioactive protection gear, at least make you nauseous. She quickly realized that this was not the accurate route through the rat maze of hair and started over. Now the whole process of attempting a new attack only to abandon all hope was repeated again and again. Each time the bush on top of my head grew in so many dimensions I was certain that Buckaroo Banzai was now crossing over into my hair.



When she got out the black orthodontic rubber bands I didn’t know if she planned to employ them in the up-doo or sadistically place them on my nipples for a little diversion. Puzzlement solved: into the bush they went. Now these bands are used to force permanent teeth to shift within a person’s jaw. There what you might call the “Mighty Mouse” or rubber bands. I guess my hair artist figured that if these little suckers were strong enough to correct dental problems, it would surely hold my tresses as she wished. And, after about 3-100 count bags of these suckers, my hair had in fact begun to behave. The problem was that it was behaving like an orc helmet from the prop department of LOTR.



Now that the “up-doo” had officially become an “up-don’t” we moved on to the makeup. Suffice it to say that I don’t normally wear makeup. The only time I put on makeup is when I’m going to Rocky Horror or the final (and they really mean it this time!) KISS concert. This time the make-up artist really had her work cut out for her. She started with a lovely translucent base, applied a matte coat of powder to reduce the shine and then outlined my “entrancing” eyes with some sort of tiny brush dipped in liquid that must have been stored in the freezer. She then completed the look with some colors on my eye lids to add luster and an overall bronzer to blend and bring the look together.



She brought something together alright. What it looked like was the unholy matrimony of the Caucasian-midget version of Rue Paul and “The Thing” in drag. Of course everyone told me it wasn’t as bad as I thought but their words didn’t carry much credibility considering they were about to toss their champagne.



Ah well, I thought, I put on my celadon/celery/sea foam dress with spaghetti straps and an empire waist and moved about like I was royalty. Less like Queen Elizabeth and more like Henry the 8th mind you, but none the less royal. Before the music began at the church I grabbed my friend, the bride’s arm and said to her, “Well, this is it, are you ready?” to which she replied, “How can I not be! They always say, ‘with a good man by your side, you can get through anything’, well, today it looks like I’ve got a good man on both sides, so I’m golden!” Neither of us could laugh for fear of turning into Alice Cooper-look-alikes, so we choked back the tears and strutted down the isle.



Later I told my friend that it was my entire plan from the beginning. I knew she wanted to look good that day and all eyes would be upon her and her beauty...