Wedding of the Century Part Deux: The Head

Oh, you lovelies! So, so, so kind about That Dress, and about the way it made me feel. Enough of you commented about my inner and outer beauty that when I came across this shot on my phone I could only assume you were basing your judgment on scans of my lovely pancreas.

Because look at that face.

That is the face of a mmphty-plus-years-old person in the hairdresser chair of the bridal suite, surrounded by lovely young things who honestly take your breath away with their fresh faces and thick, waist-length hair. At the age of mmphty-plus everything above the neck is pretty much interlocking wrinkles and aspiration. (Okay, fine. So is everything below the neck but I avoid looking at that part in  the mirror.)

The Mother of the Bride, who may be the kindest person I've ever met, invited me to participate in the gussying-up morning of the wedding, a session that included both a hairdresser and a make-up artist. This is the first time, ever, in my life, I've had that kind of simultaneous pampering. I've had my fabulous barber doing stellar work with my hair for decades, because when your hair has the texture of cotton candy you'd jolly well better have some stellar work being done or invest in a lot of hats. And I had avoided sunbathing because ick, sweaty and buggy, so my skin is fairly well preserved for mmphty-plus. But hair and make-up at the same time? Nope. Never.

When I slid into the hairdresser chair right after the attendant with the most beautiful red hair I've ever seen, I'm sure Hairdresser Ashley sighed a deep inner sigh and perhaps even had the thought I've imputed to her in the thought bubble above.

"I want to look like I always look, but better," I told her, ignoring the fact that I'd met her four seconds earlier and she had no idea how I usually looked. "I just want to avoid looking like Minnie Pearl showing up at the Grand Ol' Opry." Also ignoring that she was way to young to get that reference, but whatever.

Twenty minutes later she had--well, I'm not sure what she had done but I loved it. My head was tousled and fluffed so artfully that it looked as if I'd slept on a fancy pillow in the most wonderful way and just jumped out of bed to go to a wedding.

But that face. Oof. As I got into the  make-up chair, I was fervently wishing I could turn back the clock and moisturize faithfully for a couple of decades.

Fortunately, make-up artists don't become make-up artists just because they like Halloween. Or maybe they do, but they pick up a few tricks to disguise the passing of years. My own make-up regimen takes a flat two minutes from the time I slap on the Oil of Olay and a dab of tinted moisturizer to the time I've put  the cap back on the mascara wand. This session took a flat 40 minutes and a full tackle box of age-defying potions.

I had brought Lovely Girl#1 with me as my security blanket--"You're responsible for making sure I don't do anything dumb," I told her. "If I ask for a cat-eye eyeliner or some kind of fake tattoo, you have to override me."

Maker-upper Jessica was soothing and chatty, complimenting me on my skin (thanks, Mom, for the good genes) and eyebrows. (Hahaha! I know! This blog is built on a solid foundation of my complaints about my eyebrows.)

Anyway, she was almost done when she said the magic words that may have changed my life:

"How do you feel about fake eyelashes?"

I...had no words. Me? In fake eyelashes?

"We don't have to do a full strip--I could just add a few to pump up your natural lashes." And she held out a box of individual lashes. They looked like spider's legs. "Really, it wouldn't feel heavy and it would look great."

I could practically hear Professor Harold Hill singing about trouble in River City and the first big step on the road to de-gra-day... And yet..

"Here, let me try it on one eye, and if you don't like it, I'll take them off." Jessica dabbed a lash in glue and set it on top of my own lashes. It felt strange, but not painful and strangely light. She added another, and another, six in all, and I was sure I was looking like this:

via GIPHY

I turned to my security person and Lovely Girl both yelped and gasped. My immediate reaction was that it looked as bad as I had feared, but she was grinning.

"You have got to do that. Seriously, you have to."

And that's why I spent the day of WotCII with false eyelashes,batting them every which way and enjoying the breeze. It was fun, and when I washed my face with hot water later and saw those spider legs crawling down my face and disappearing into the drain, there was a moment of regret.

It was fun to be pampered in a manner worthy of That Dress, and to remember that I'm simply a female female with my eyelashes all in  curls.

Blah blah blah more sexist lyrics, but I enjoyed being a girl.