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Wedding bell blues

This summer we’re going to have two family weddings. Both my brother and my brother-in-law are getting hitched. I send them many congratulations and best wishes for huge prezzies and lavish honeymoons, and most especially, no drama.


Our wedding was small. We had a limited budget, as did our parents, so we opted for bargains more often than not. My dress was the least expensive one I could find. My invitations were ordered from a stationery store. But the actual day was lovely, the venue was very nice (upstairs at least…family, you know what I’m talking about), and everything went smooth as silk. With one exception:

My hair.

I had booked an appointment at a posh salon downtown to have my hair done for the wedding – you know, piled up and elegant looking. I sat in the chair while the stylist worked on me, completely oblivious to what was going on three inches above my eyebrows. She twirled me around to look at the final result, and I thought…”Okay. It’s okay.” My maid of honor said nothing. She smiled a lot.

And then I went to get in my car. Now, at the time I drove a 1972 Volvo wagon. The seats are low and the car ceilings are high. And my hair scraped the freaking ceiling.

I looked like Mari Wilson of the B-52’s. I was wearing a hair torpedo.

When I arrived at the venue, my mother took one look at me and started to giggle. Before I could puddle up, she pulled a can of hair spray out of her purse and pulled me into a back room. And, by gosh, she used that can of hair spray. But she didn’t spray it – she beat my hair into submission. Then she sprayed it.

Here’s our wedding photo, from September, 1985 (and don’t laugh. The bridesmaid dresses came in the wrong color and wrong fabric. By that time, we didn’t care.):


If my mom hadn’t come to my rescue, I would have looked like Marge Simpson.

Thanks, Mom.


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