Friday, April 3, 2009

Day 117: Fields of Gold, Chapter 26

One of the great blessings of my life is that I have a sister, and that sister is a beautician. Some of my early memories include her pulling my (always) too short hair into a tight french braid and putting flowers into it. She was, and is, a miracle worker.

It was time for me to have my bridal portraits taken, and I told her my vision--Gibson Girl. A loose upsweep do, a la Anne of Avonlea:


She caught my vision. The night before, she worked painstakingly to turn my drab, mousy brown hair into beautiful golden and honey strands. It took hours and hours and hours for her to carefully color and foil the strands so that they would look just right. By the time she was done, in the wee hours of the morning, I didn't even care what color it was. I just wanted to go to bed.


The next morning, however, I did care. It was blonde. Very, very, very blonde. I wasn't sure about it--I either loved it, or hated it, but couldn't quite tell which. She assured me that I loved it.


That afternoon, I poised myself in front of her as she used an army of bobby pins and hair product to pull my hair into a gibson girl updo. Mission accomplished, we piled me, my dress, the slip, and some flowers in the car and headed up to the park where we'd agreed to meet my photographer. On the way, we stopped so I could say hi to Dave.


He was waiting for me as I got out of the car and approached him. I could see it in his eyes, which were strained ever so slightly at the corners. I smiled at him as he gave me a hug and I said "You hate it." "No, no..." he stuttered "..Um... Are you going to leave it like that?" (When, I wondered, would I remember that he was incapable of lying about anything, and not to ask him things unless I really want to know the answer???) "Um. Yes." was my reply. "Well--have fun!" he cheered for me.


Feeling anything but a radiant bride, I shlumped back to the car and we drove to the park, There in the parking lot, I squeazed into my size 6 wedding gown. It *almost* fit. You could get it done up. You just couldn't breathe. Or look too closely at the seams. But it would have to do. My photographer took shots of me sitting, standing, with my veil and without. I grinned, twisted my head, and contorted my back trying to get into the perfect positions. I suddenly pitied models.


After the photoshoot, my parents and sister dropped me off at Dave's so we could go see a movie together. Driving to the theater, I began pulling bobby pin after bobby pin out of my hair and it slowly came loose, falling in little waves down to my shoulders.


Looking over at me and smiling he said, "Hey--I like the color." And I knew he really did.


He was so perfect for me.


5 comments:

Denise said...

Perfect- just perfect. You have talent, you SHOULD be a writer! Denise

Denise said...

I love the picture-I'm glad you put it there even if it was after the fact. I am loving your story. Denise

Carolynn Spencer said...

Becca,

Love the story. By now, that goes without saying. But I am staring at this bride. At first I thought it wasn't you at all, but now I'm thinking it must be. But it's just the position. I can't recognize you. Take me out of my misery. Is it you or not????

The Smiths said...

More pictures, more pictures!!! :) LOVE it!!

Becca said...

Carolynn--yep, that's me. :) (And my "Thurgood" nose. (My mom tells me that's where I get it.)