Oglethorpe Mall, JCPenney Salon.
October 13, 2007.
My wedding will begin in three and a half hours. I will marry my best friend. I will begin the rest of my life, and I will by the happiest woman on the planet.
But first I have to get my hair did.
My mom and sister are with me; from my perch in the salon chair, I can see them through the mirror, flipping through magazines, feet bouncing to the beat of the bad 90s soundtrack piped in through the store speakers. My eyes travel back to my own reflection. What's-Her-Name is carefully curling tiny sections of my long brown hair; her brow is furrowed in concentration.
It's worth noting here that my hair is ridiculously thick. It's been compared to a horse's tale, and yes, that was probably meant as an insult. Every stylist I go to always has to remark on the thickness of my hair. Apparently, no one has hair thicker than mine.
Which is exactly why we made my appointment for my elaborate up-do three and a half hours before the wedding. Should be plenty of time.
What's-Her-Name is yanking at my hair with her pick thingy. It doesn't feel great. Despite my thick hair, my scalp is relatively sensitive. Her less-than-gentle ministrations have brought tears to my eyes, but I'm still feeling super positive and not even a smidgen nervous about my upcoming wedding. She's probably a third of the way through.
Through the mirror, I see my mom and sister, still flipping through magazines, still bouncing their feet. My eyes meet my mom's; she mouths, "are you okay?" And even though What's-Her-Name is trying to kill me my yanking my hair out one torturous strand at a time, I nod.
What's-Her-Name is taking a break. One of her regular clients needed emergency hair-color advice. I can't really blame What's-Her-Name; her client is local, someone who will actually return and use her services again in the future. I'm just an out-of-town bride with annoyingly thick hair.
Who is supposed to get married in an hour and a half and hasn't even started doing her makeup or gotten dressed or anything.
My hair is only half up.
I spin my chair around to face my mom. She's not a happy camper.
"We've gotta go."
This I know. She slaps down her magazine, marches off to find What's-Her-Name, and within fifteen minutes, we're outta there. My mom doesn't mess around.
Courtyard by Marriott.
October 13, 2007.
Well, I don't have the up-do I had envisioned, but at least we've made it back to the hotel so I can get dressed and actually make it to my own wedding without being late.
Thirty minutes of make-up and scrambling into my J. Crew dress pass. In thirty more minutes, I'll marry my best friend.
October 13, 2007.
I'm pretty sure Daddy broke several traffic laws, but he gets me to my Savannah square in one piece. Savannah has 21 squares in total, each unique and rich in history. But Whitefield Square is our's. For the time it will take us to get married, it belongs solely to us and the ghosts of its past.
Jeremy and members of our family are already standing in the gazebo in the center of the square when I arrive. I feel like a princess at the ball. As I approach, I see the man that I will marry, and I fall in love again.
It's a warm October day. I'm in the most beautiful city in the South. And I'm getting married to my best friend. Sure, my hair is only half-up, but it's perfect. Everything's just perfect.
This post was written in response to the Flicker of Inspiration Prompt: I Wanna Marry You. Come join us over at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug for fun writing prompts and fellowship!