Welcome back to the continuing saga of planning our daughter Casey’s wedding to her fiancé Alex at the Norwalk Aquarium.
If you’ve been reading these wedding blogs from the beginning, it may seem at times that we’re not celebrating a couple’s love and commitment toward each other as much as producing a Broadway show. After all, we have costumes (gowns and tuxes), set designs (floral arrangements), and music (the band leader actually played in a Broadway show). And if the show you had in mind was The Little Mermaid, we’ll also have plenty of fish.
But if you still had doubts that this was, in fact, a theatrical extravaganza, they would be erased if you happen to be around at about 11am on the day of the wedding.
That’s when everyone goes into hair and makeup.
The hairstylist for Casey and the bridesmaids (which, by the way, would be a great name for a rock band), has been lined up for months, and we happen to have a friend, Ellen, who’s a professional makeup person. They will both arrive armed with hair products, face products and, hopefully, lots of patience. It will take hours to get the women ready for their close-ups.
And I use the cliche “ready for their close-ups” literally, because this is all about the photographs.
As far as I can tell from overhearing conversations, once all the pictures are taken, it doesn’t much matter if they powder their faces white and stick big red balls on their noses. In fact, we probably could have saved a ton of money by just getting everyone together, dressing them up, taking their pictures, and sending them home. Everything else appears to be superfluous.
I expect that some of the photos will have men in them, but no one really cares what they look like. We’ll all have our matching tuxedos, of course, and probably some sort of flower in our lapels, so in case the women do put on clown faces, we can squirt them.
But Alex, who I think bears a striking resemblance to the fake news reporter John Oliver (except for the monkey), is unlikely to change his circa-1963 Beatles haircut too much. And, as for me, well, I didn’t think my hair would be an issue, since I don’t have much of it.
I know that some men experience great angst when using a new hair stylist, but not me. I’m perfectly willing to wander into any storefront with a striped pole in front of it, even if it’s December and it’s a toy store with a big candy cane. I’ll point to the top of my head and say “Zero.” I’ll point to the sides and say “One.” I’ll point to my beard and say “Two.” Referring, of course, to the settings on the electric clippers. I don’t care if I’m only talking to the receptionist, or even some other guy waiting for a haircut.
Really, all you need to do my hair is a steady hand and a Flowbee.
But, okay, so I dutifully go to my local SuperCuts on a Sunday morning, which, evidently, is the unofficial “Kid’s Haircut” day at SuperCuts. “Zero,” I state, purposefully. “One. Two.”
A woman, seemingly ecstatic at not having to jack up the chair 10 inches, cuts my hair as directed, brushes me off, tosses a warm, wet towel on my head, and calls it haircut. I leave looking pretty much as I do when Barbara cuts my hair, only I’m 20 bucks poorer and I have a headache from screaming kids and mothers screaming at screaming kids.
I figure I have time to get in one more beta cut before the ONLY HAIRCUT THAT REALLY MATTERS, so I guess next month I’ll try a place that doesn’t have lollypops.
And if it turns out lousy, well, that’s why they invented Photoshop.
See you soon.