Hello, my poppets! Tick, tock, tick, tock, guess what's getting closer? Zat's rrrright, ze vedding deluxe grandioso y excelente! In these blustery days of Texas winter, Handsome and I have been busy planning away all the extra special things. Music, decorations, readings, special decorative flourishes, and more, and all on budget! The invitations are out, the RSVPs are pouring in, the caterer is standing by, the DJ is booked, Han's suit is perfection, my dress is at the tailor's getting perfectly shortened, flowers are under control, and the cupcake lady awaits our signal to commence a'baking. Our rehearsal dinner might be the most fun party ever in the history of parties (Texas-themed costume party!) and basically, I feel like a magic fairy just twinkled down from the heavens and tapped me with a sparkling wand of awesome. Have I really planned this all? Is it really going this well?
There is only one smudge, one slightly dark blip, on the Wedding Horizon of Bliss: the Amazing Cheastypants Hair has seen better days. Don't freak out, this isn't anything like living in Nicaragua, when the Amazing Cheastypants Hair was declared a Natural Disaster Area. It's fine, totally awesome, in comparison with that nightmare. It's just that... how do I say this? I have bangs.
The other night I went to my French Salon of Glorious Hair, where I frequently offer my services as a Hair Model. Normally, this situation is nothing short of fantastic. I pay $15 for a haircut that in the real world would cost around $100, and in exchange, I get amazing haircuts. Well, usually they're amazing haircuts. You see, sometimes they tend towards the trendy, and even the experimental. For example, I steered clear of the salon a few years ago when a few of my friends emerged with Euro-mullets and PTSD. But that phase passed, and I returned.
I don't even pay attention to what the stylist is doing to my head anymore, that's how reliably good these haircuts are. So last Tuesday when the lady described what she was going to give me, I vaguely registered her words (though I'm pretty sure I would have perked up and paid attention had she actually use the b-word), and blithely read my magazine, letting her snip away. Twenty minutes later I looked up, and I had bangs.
In all my 33 years, I have never, not once, not even remotely had bangs. In all honesty, I'd sort of assumed I would live my entire life without bangs. But now, 70-odd days before I am to be wed, and (more to the point) photographed ad nauseum, I find myself with bangs. BANGS!
I'm still deciding how I feel about it. On good days, I think I look sort of 80's chic. A cuter, flippier version of Ali Sheedy in the Breakfast Club. On bad days, there are no words. It's the curly hair, you see. If I don't blow dry it straight, the bangs look like curly fries stuck off the front of my head.
Grow, hair, I command you.