So, you've been wondering where the hell I've been, eh?
My best friend from college was married on New Year's Day and I was honored to be a bridesmaid - even at my age.
(Shut up. Is it really so hard to believe there is someone on the planet who has tolerated me for almost twenty-five years? Never mind. Don't answer that.)
I don't travel much and I don't particularly enjoy it. I like the being there part, but I could really live without the traveling part.
(I'd like to take this opportunity to personally thank the dickhead who tried to blow up an aircraft on Christmas Day. This made my trip to Portland less than a week later uber pleasant. Thanks to you, Richard Reid, and those liquid bomber wannabes, I had my hairspray and toothpaste confiscated by the friendly TSA. Thankfully, my Philosophy Hope In a Tube eye cream was .3 ounces below the per container limit for fluids allowed in a carry-on bag. Otherwise, we would have had a very serious security issue on our hands as I reached across the table and poked the eyes out of my friendly TSA agent's skull. Seventy-five bucks a tube is not something from which I'm willing to allow radicalized terrorists to separate me.)
On the morning of New Year's Eve, my nine year old daughter and I made it through security and onto to our plane without being put on a watch list. After an hour and a half of sitting on the plane while said plane was still at gate C9, we were finally in the air. I even resisted the urge to add one (or two) of those cute little vodka bottles to my orange juice. The same cannot be said for the two gentlemen who were sitting directly behind my daughter and me.
Just as we were flying over Denver, one of the men behind me had consumed enough vodka to ask me if I thought we were over Nebraska.
I had decided this was the lamest line I had ever heard from a man until his friend opened his mouth with "Are you Argentinian by any chance?"
And then the grand finale of "I'm a professional photographer and my friend would like a picture of you to create a sketch from later. Could I take your picture?"
(Yeah Dude, like that's going to happen.)
My daughter whispered, "Mom, those men are being really nice to you. I think it is because your hair looks so pretty today."
My hair was looking good that day and when my daughter so accurately pointed this out, I softened up just a bit about the men. I mean, after all, men are suckers for good hair. And I have good hair. And lips. I like to think my hair and lips compensate for the size of my ass and for what gravity and children have done to my boobs.
So, with good hair and fully glossed lips balancing a fat ass and saggy boobs, my daughter and I arrived in Portland.
We immediately hit the nail salon around the corner from our fabulous hotel. We left with my nails a very wedding appropriate french and with my daughter's a beautiful and dress matching glittery red.
The next morning we were scheduled for hair. When the Bride emailed me a couple of months ago asking if I were interested in having my hair done on the day of the wedding, my exact response was "Yes. I don't want to be the only Bridesmaid with bug fuck ugly hair in your wedding photographs. And go ahead and put the kid down for hair as well. There is no way I'll be able to get away with a beauty treatment without including her."
And so my hair lot was cast.
Just as my daughter and I arrived for our hair appointments, the Bride was finishing up and preparing to leave to get her make up professionally done. When I saw her hair, I was stunned. It was gorgeous. The Bride's hair is difficult to work with due to it's fine texture and medium length. The hairdresser had worked some amazing magic. Somehow her hair was curly and was loosely pulled back into a messy, yet elegant, bun at the nape of her neck. Gorgeous, I tell you. Gorgeous.
I was almost giddy thinking about what he was going to do to my hair. I was going to look amazing.
The hairdresser did my daughter's hair first. He did a darling little hard part on the side with a thin braid that twisted around her head and met up with a thicker braid in the back. He then took both braids and wound them into the cutest bun on the nape of my daughter's neck.
She was giddy when she saw herself.
I could not wait to see what he had in store for me.
I climbed into the chair and said these fateful words - "I trust you. Just make me look like Angelina Jolie."
I did not describe to him what I imagined that he would do to my hair. I just let him have his way with me and my locks.
If he thought leaving the majority of my hair down was a good idea, I envisioned something like this.
Elegant, looks good from the back when walking down the aisle, and totally something my hair is capable of pulling off when placed in the right hands.
If he thought an up do was more appropriate, this is what I envisioned.
Sexy and I appreciate the softness the long, loose pieces lend to this look. Again, my hair has this in it.
If he wanted something much more formal, this was what I had in mind.
Not really my style and I'm sure my head would have hurt horribly by the end of the evening, but still a beautiful choice for a wedding.
There must be something about me that just screams Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Perhaps I somehow let it slip that my secret fantasy is to be Warren Jeff's sixty-first wife, because when I looked into the mirror after my hair was finished, I was one widow's peak short of looking like the woman in the center of this photo.
Or one gingham dress short of being indistinguishable from this line up.
Truthfully, this is the best approximation of what I looked like - sans the Book of Mormon and unibrow, of course.
The Bride and the rest of the Bridesmaids were appropriately horrified. They collectively worked on my hair prior to the photos, but honestly, despite my best efforts I was indeed the only Bridesmaid in the wedding with bug fuck ugly hair.
I'm so looking forward to seeing how fabulously one of the best photographers in Portland documented my hair. I'm sure its going to be a hoot.