My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding

chapter 12



On this new morning that is free of stalkers I awake to full on cramps. Not stomach cramps due to diarrheal problems. Proper cramps due to the f*cking period. Or as I like to call it: THE MONTHLY CURSE.

I hate the period. I especially hate seeing tampon and sanitary pads adverts on the telly when it’s my time of the month. Once, when I was changing my pad last year, as I sat there upon the toilet peeling of the paper bits, there was a surprise to be had that was written upon the sticky surface. ‘Have a happy period,’ it said, mocking me.

Have a happy period? A happy period?

At the time of reading I was incensed with rage. Luckily I hadn’t taken my phone with me into the bathroom —as I am often want to do for pee-tweeting purposes— if I’d had my phone with me at the time of sitting there on the pot, I would have called up the stupid and idiotic feminine products company immediately. I also would have promptly embarrassed myself with an irate phone call asking why. Just why would you think it sensible to tell women to have a happy period?

I’ve never for the life of me been able to figure out who could have possibly created the world’s worst ever sanitary pad ad. There is no such thing as a happy period. In my opinion, there isn’t even a period that’s mediocre, in terms of emotional levels during this abysmal time of the month. As far as I’m concerned, the day medical scientists create a safe way of not ever, ever having a period will be the one and true happy day for me.

Such is my life being a woman though, I’ve no choice but to deal with my period coming on today. I roll over in bed, stuff my hand into the bedside cabinet and come up with menstruation medication. I may have no choice in the amount of blood that oozes out disgustingly from between my legs, but I’ll be damned if I’m just going to lie here and let cramps over run my life. I’ve got to get to the salon. I’m trying out different bridal hair styles for the big day.

After swallowing two pain killers I drag my phone off the bedside table. I’m going to lie here and wait for the medication to kick in, so I might as well check my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Also, I’m feeling quite lonesome having awoken after Callum already left the house, so I send him a text message consisting of a single icon. No words, just a little picture of a spewing lava volcano.

My fiancé texts back promptly:

Poor you on your period. X



He understood my picture message perfectly. I text him back an icon of a frowny face and I get many hugs and heart pictures in reply. Who needs actual words in this day and age of technology? Mini icons speak volumes in text message format. Although, virtual hugs don’t make up for lonely feelings, so I FaceTime my fiancé.

Callum’s face comes on the screen. “Oh yes you’re definitely on the period.”

That’s his greeting? “Charming.” I grumble, but I must admit I probably do look like shit.

He laughs. “Sorry, babe. You know you’re always gorgeous to me at any time of the month.”

“Good save.” I wink at him from my prone position in bed. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re going to have to hire me a solicitor.”

Callum’s face, on my small phone screen, has turned very frowny. “A solicitor?”

“Yes, I’m being stalked.”

“Stalked?”

“Is this phone working properly? Can you hear me, or are you just repeating everything I say to be annoying?”

“Okay little miss period with attitude, that’s enough from you.”

Sticking out my lower lip, I pout like a child. “I’m serious, Cal. This kid from the Meli Spa is following me around town!”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really. I’m worried he’s going to murder me in my sleep soon. I need a person of the law to help me file a restraining order.”

My fiancé, who isn’t taking me seriously enough, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to get back to work now, my love. Give my best to your stalker and I’ll see you tonight.”

“What?” I jerk upright. “You can’t just ignore this, Cal.” I whinge into the screen of the phone. “Thomas is so irritating!”

“Good bye, darling.” My similarly irritating fiancé waves to me from inside my phone. Then he blows me a kiss and ends the call.”

I harrumph out loud. “So much for chivalry.” Honestly, Callum isn’t nearly as jealous of other men as I think he should be. Not that I consider a spotty teenager to be a grown up man in the slightest.

Sliding out of bed, my feet hit the carpeted floor depressingly. Is it possible to have depressed feet? I’m certain that today sad feet are indeed entirely possible. So I shuffle sluggishly towards the bathroom. Once I’m on the bare tiled floor, I stop and stare at the scales.

Should I step on it? I don’t know if I want to weigh myself after eating wrong so recently. There is much trepidation in my heart. It’s just a set of bathroom scales I’m looking at. I should get over myself and just check my weight. I mean really, I know I’ll probably have gained a few pounds. It’s not like I’ll step on the scales and they’ll reveal an entire stone in weight gain. I’m just being silly.

Either that or I’m properly afraid.

I’m a bride to be. I wonder if all soon-to-be-brides develop eating disorders. It’s definitely not normal for me to be standing here for ages like this, just staring and staring at the scales. It’s probably going to take some kind of mental miracle to push me onto the glass platform. I don’t know how I’m going to convince my brain to get over the fear of flab.

I look up and glance into the mirror that’s on the wall.

“Look at that, brain!” I’m talking out loud to myself. Oh well, I figure I lost the plot long ago when I took my first steps into this bathroom today. Not being able to step on the scales has done my head in and I’m going to have to take special measures to knock some sense into my mind. “See how angular my jaw line looks?” Again, I’m speaking to my own reflection. I drag a finger along my chin. “No more double chin disaster area for me!”

Closing my eyes I count to three out loud.

“One.” I back away slowly.

“Two.” I lift my right foot and place it onto the cold glass surface of the bathroom scales.

“Three!” I step onto said scales and…

And nothing. I don’t dare open my eyes to look down at the digital read out that will tell me how much of a big fat cow I truly am.

I suppose it’s time for another countdown then.

This time, I reel the numbers off in my head as I’m too busy squeezing my whole face tight in order to keep my eyes shut. It’s as though I have to work against my own facial muscles just to get my eyes to open. I have no idea how I’m going to control my neck in attempts at getting my head to face downwards. This is internal insanity. I’ve gone completely bonkers and I’ll need checking into a mental institution soon!

“Right. This is it. Emily Clare Gillam.” I scream at myself. “Open your stupid eyes and look at the scales this instant!”

Well, I certainly can’t disobey my own vehemence in the matter. I overcome whatever’s holding me back. I strike mentally against the fear of fat gain. Whipping open my eyes I crane my neck down and peer at the scales.

What I see on the readout is nothing short of a complete and total anti-climax after all the idiot mental insanity I’ve just put myself through.

I’ve actually lost half a stone in weight.

***



I am a woman renewed. Again. Because I seem to feel exuberance quite often, depending on my mood. Oh well! At least I’m happier now than I was upon first waking this morning. Losing weight during the period will do that to a woman. There’s nothing better than seeing that the pounds have fallen off when stepping on the scales. Okay so it had taken me some critical thinking skills to get myself to initially step on those scales in the first place, but once I’d actually stood on them and having seen my weight loss, I’d definitely stepped on them repeatedly after that!

I’m on my way to Tina’s salon for bridal hair testing now, and I’m headed there with a spring in my step. Lighter steps, because obviously I’m a person who weighs half a stone less than she did the at the last weigh-in. Therefore, my boingy footfalls of happiness truly are lighter in mass and pounding-the-pavementus-impacticus!

Swinging the salon door open wide, I rush indoors. “I’m here, Tina!” I exude confidence. “Make my hair as beautiful as the readout on my scales.”

The receptionist looks at me funny as I swish grandly towards the high countertop. Obviously she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but it doesn’t matter, Tina will sort out my hair to match my weight loss happiness.

“Have a seat,” the receptionist says. She’s got a small bob haircut that’s dyed a hue of bright red the likes of which I see a lot more often lately. “Would you like a hot drink?”

A hot drink on a warm sunny day? I think not. “I’ll just have some water please.” I plonk myself down onto the sofa in the waiting area. Smoothing down my light chiffon trousers, I sit at the edge of the couch with my shoulders back and down. Normally I tend to sink inwards in attempts at squashing down the honest size of my boobs. Today though, I’m positive they’ve already begun to shrink, so jutting my chest forward isn’t likely to poke anyone’s eyes out from breastal impact when I enter a room.

“Oh, Emily, you’re here.”

Standing, I greet Tina merrily with a big grin as she’s just entered the waiting area.

Bbbzzzzzz. A grinding sound emanates from the back of the salon and I glance past Tina’s shoulder.

Oh for f*ck sake. My good mood has just been completely ruined because the salon trolley shaped robot is zooming towards me at high speed.

“Shoo!” Tina turns and waves the thing off. “I told you to stay in the office, you crazy little thing.”

I guess her robotic model from Oliver is a voice command unit, like Kirsten’s boombox bot.

“That little bugger giving you trouble?” I ask Tina.

She straightens and leans against the trolley-bot who seems to be pressing at the back of her legs. “No, no. This thing is fine. It’s just…” Tina’s talking trails off and she frowns deeply. “Never mind, Emily. You need your bridal hair examples done today, right?”

I nod, but I too am frowning immensely at the buzzing bot behind her. She’s pushing it back while walking in reverse. “Umm… Stacy will be doing your updos today, Emily.” Tina looks nervous, then, she turns and places her hands onto the persistent robot. “I just (grunt) have some work to do in the (grunt, push, strain against the machine) office!”

She finally gets her last word out before managing to shove herself and the bot away.

Well, this is a bummer. I don’t know why Tina can’t just admit to me that her trolley-bot is a walking disaster area of a machine. Or should I say a floating disaster area? Because that’s what these robots are and I just wish everyone who’s been duped into having one off Oliver would get a clue. Returning the crazy devices to their inventor really would be the best thing to do for everyone involved. Mainly me, as they seem to malfunction around my personage most of the time.

I really wanted it to be Tina doing my sample wedding hairdos. I’d gone through bridal magazine after bridal magazine with her last month. She’s the only one who knows which styles I want for my blonde hair.

“Hhuuuuhhhh,” sighing loudly in exasperation I plonk back down onto the sofa. I have to stand right back up again when Stacy enters the waiting area of the salon.

“Hello, Emily,” she says, pulling her own blonde hair into a ponytail and securing it with a scrunchy. “Tina showed me the magazine pics you chose for your bridal hair. Shall we get this on you?”

Reaching towards the wall hook, Stacy pulls down a black smock and holds it open for me to put on. I move forward and shove my arm through the flowy fabric while turning on my heel. As I’m yanking on the other arm of the smock, the digital bell over the front door chimes.

I glance up to see Thomas entering the salon.

“Why you little pest.” I hiss. “What the hell are you doing here?” I move forward so fast the cover-all cloth I’m now wearing billows out behind me. “Now you listen to me…” I’m about to add the term ‘brat’ to the end of my sentence, when I stop myself for civilised reasons. “I know you’re stalking me and even though I don’t know why, I want you to stop!” I jab a stabby finger into the blonde kid’s chest.

“I’m not stalking you.” Thomas doesn’t even flinch. “I’m just here to umm… I’m here to give Stacy a lift home.”

“You what?” Turning fully around I look at Stacy. “You know this child?”

Ping ring!

She shakes her head. “No I don’t know who that was, and I don’t know how he knew my name.”

What does she mean, who that was?

Turning back round I can see that Thomas has gone. I realise I hadn’t noticed the sound of the door chime pinging when he’d exited the salon.

***



I’m sat in the salon chair now. Stacy is standing behind me and we’re both looking at each other in the mirror.

“Who was that cute but creepy guy?” Stacy asks me.

Cute? Really? “I don’t know,” I reply, looking at her in the mirror reflection. “He’s been following me around for ages and I’m beyond tired of it.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a stalker.” Stacy drags her hands through my hair and I have a feeling her mind is elsewhere. “That would be a guy who you’d know proper liked you, right?”

My facial expression of —jaw wide open in the mirror’s reflection— shows I’m aghast at her statement. “Um no, I don’t think so.” I really don’t know how else to answer her question. It’s mind boggling that she even asked me it in the first place. I bet she wouldn’t ask an A-List celebrity a question like that. Especially not someone famous who’s been to court over some creepazoid stalker climbing into their bedroom window and trying on their underwear, or something.

“So,” I say, changing the subject back to the matter of hair at hand. “Did you say Tina showed you the updos I’d like to try?”

Stacy nods. “Course she did, and I have a surprise for you.”

Uh oh. I’m not sure I like the sound of that particular statement.

“I thought about all the pictures, right?”

I wait for Stacy to continue, but she doesn’t until I nod my head in agreement.

“Well!” She exclaims. “I put the lot together inside my brain.” At this point she taps the side of her head while I carry on staring at her via the mirror’s reflection. “I’ve invented a bridal style for you that includes the lot!”

What can she mean; includes the lot? Does she think I want all of the bridal hair style combined into one? “Um…” I mumble. “I don’t think that’s quite what I had in mind. Could we just try out the looks separately first?”

“What on earth for?” Stacy takes a comb from the shelf and gets to work on my hair. “Once I show you this style you won’t want me to do another!”

I’m inclined to believe her on that point. I don’t want her to do my hair at all, let alone any other styles if she’s not going to do as I ask. Oh well, this is actually a complimentary visit from Tina, as she’s a friend. I guess I’m going to have to let Stacy have her way. If I don’t like it though, I’ll be honest regardless of whether or not I’m getting my hair done for free.

Yank.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

Pull.

I hiss through my teeth at the pain.

“Sorry.”

At this rate Stacy is going to brush all the hairs from my scalp, and it doesn’t half hurt as well. She’s not gentle. “Can you please take it a little more easy.” I beg. My eyes are starting to water.

Stacy apologises again and gets back to work only slightly less pulling at my locks. She drapes a towel around my shoulders and instructs me to follow her.

Oh. So that was just the brushing of hair part. I dread to think what I’m about to endure whilst having my hair washed.

Leaning the back of my head and neck into the sink, I try to relax while staring at the ceiling propped television set. I might be in even more of a panic now though. What if that flatscreen falls onto my face? It will probably kill me—”

“Ouch, ouch!” I scream as Stacy blasts my skull with hot water. “Too warm! That’s much too warm!”

“Sorry.” She apologises yet again and removes the stream of scalding water from the top of my head. When she next starts wetting my locks the water is freezing cold. I’m not going to complain though, because I’d rather have chattering teeth come the end of enduring this, than to have my scalp burned off.

And so, yet again, I find myself grinning and baring it. I’m literally clamping my jaw shut tight together in attempts at withstanding the freeze upon my head.

“Okay,” Stacy finally says after shutting off the liquid nitrogen temperature water. “You can sit forward now.”

Rising slowly, it takes a second for Stacy to gather up the towel from around my shoulders. She doesn’t quite wrap it tightly around my head well enough, so chilled water drips from my forehead and into my eyes.

Shivering, I rise from my seat and follow Stacy back towards the salon chair. I figure she’ll have to blow dry my hair a bit, so maybe I’ll be able to warm up from some hot air soon.

Correction, I’m going to be perpetually frozen solid for the remainder of this ordeal. Stacy has turned on a desk fan and has aimed it fully at my face. “This will slowly dry your hair.” She explains. “We don’t want it dripping wet, now do we?”

We don’t. No, I certainly don’t. I never want my hair to be cold and dripping wet again! I’m tempted to take a mental vow of never again stepping foot into an outdoor swimming pool, if it means I would then never have to get out and subject my poor cranium to freezing cold air against it.

Wrapping my arms around myself underneath the black shift, doesn’t warm me up at all. What’s worse is that Stacy has now started dragging a fine toothed comb through my sodden hair, after pulling down the wet towel.

“Ow.” I yelp as my head is wrenched back.

“Sorry.”

“Ooouuuch.” I moan when Stacy drags the comb about halfway down my scalp, only to be stopped by the tangling of my hair.

“Sorry.”

This can’t go on! I’ll never be able to endure the agony! “It’s just that I’ve got a rather sensitive scalp.” I’m struggling to retain a sense of civilised calm in my voice.

“Oh well why didn’t you say so?” Stacy brightens and smiles at me in the reflection of the mirror. “I’ve got just the thing for you.”

Finally, she uses a wide-toothed brush on my hair. It’s a bit better —pain wise— until the torture begins again when she starts the actual hair transformation. My blonde locks are twisted and yanked upwards so tightly, then pinned in place, I don’t think I’m going to be able to blink once this is all over.

“All right now I’ve got to turn you round for this bit. I want the end result to be a surprise!” Stacy claps her hands together excitedly. She spins me round in my seat and I’m inclined to think of her recent words as utterly useless. I wasn’t able to see my reflection in the mirror any way, due to tears of pain flooding my inner eyelids.

More yanking of hair later and I’ve pulled through the pain.

“Finished?” My voice is wobbly. I’m shaken due to having to endure such torture upon my noggin.

“Finished!” Stacy whirls my chair back round.

I stare in disbelief at my reflection. My scalp is throbbing after having been blow-dried to within an inch of its life, at one point. My eyes are still watery, causing hazy vision, but I can definitely see what Stacy has done to my poor hair.

When she said she’d combined all of the images I’d suggested, she wasn’t kidding. Tilting my head, my jaw drops open in astonishment as I peruse the helmet atop my head that was once known as hair. There are so many swirls and curls pinned up at odd angles, my eyes are starting to cross. The worst of it is that from my forehead to crown are braided corn rows trailing in straight lines.

“Tee-nah!” I wail, no longer giving a fig about decorum. “Help!”

Tina comes racing into the salon from her rear office. “What’s happening — Oh dear god.” She states flatly upon seeing my supposed bridal updo. “Stacy, have you gone mad?”

As much as Tina’s chastising her trainee, she hasn’t moved towards us in the slightest and she keeps looking behind herself. “I… umm… I’ll be right back!” Tina rushes away just as I spot her trolley shaped robot floating into the salon area. She shoos it back and reappears moments later. “Right then.” Tina dismisses Stacy, telling her to take her break.

Stacy’s response is a mere shrug of the shoulders as she departs. She might not have a care in the world for what she’s done to my head, but I certainly do.

“I thought you said you were going to do my hair, Tina.” I whimper because I’m feeling sore headed and quite let down.

“I was… oh, Emily, I’m so sorry, I… just let me fix this for you. Okay?” Tina reaches out as though to start taking bobby pins out of my hair. When I yelp in agony though, she reconsiders her tactics. I try to ask her how she can employ someone like Stacy, but Tina isn’t forth coming about anything. I’m not the only person with watery eyes in this salon. Tina also looks like she’s about to start crying any minute now.

So I leave it. I don’t say another word about my disastrous hairdo. Tina guides me back to the sinks and tells me she’ll soak Stacy’s mistake out of my hair, so that I don’t have to suffer any more pain.

Two hours later I’m sitting in the salon chair with a do that’s finally made me happy. Tina has worked wonders with my locks and she did it all without causing me any further harm. She’s a miracle worker and I’m left staring at her handiwork in the mirror’s reflection.

I sigh in relief and I smile with joy. I’m so glad I’m finally pleased with this updo, because as far as I’m concerned, I’m never going to be able to take my hair down. I simply don’t want to risk harming my scalp all over again.