I went home and sat down in front of my laptop.
Bridezilla A just attacked me at a salon.
No, like actual assault.
As I sat docilely in her stylist’s chair (cheating on my own stylist, no less) like a lamb waiting for the slaughter—or in this case, the keratin treatment to destroy the natural beachy waves that are the envy of so many people—the stylist, at the bride’s request, began dyeing my dark hair blonde.
Naturally, I protested, only to be told that if I had read Bridezilla’s latest email missive about the wedding (forgive me, dear Bridezilla, but your “wedding newsletters” have gotten longer than a CVS receipt and I believe you’re up to number fifty-seven—no joke!), I would have known that my hair was about to change color. Because apparently not reading it is the same as giving consent? I didn’t even click an “I agree” box after not reading it, like I do with Apple notifications!
So let’s see, for this wedding alone, I have: lost seven pounds (not from actually trying, mind you, but from not being allowed to eat when I’m around the Bridezilla and her evil minions and the added stress of having to actually interact with these people), become a straight-haired blonde, and now have gigantic eyelashes obscuring the top part of my vision. Is it legal to drive with these on? I feel like giant space spiders are invading every time I blink.
If this is how you live your daily life, more power to you. But to force it on others for the sake of “not ruining the pictures” is beyond absurd. Hasn’t she heard of Photoshop?
I did, however, stand my ground on the Botox issue. So I’m ruining the pictures anyway by being the only bridesmaid whose face still moves as nature intended. In fact, to fix that faux pas, I may hire someone to Photoshop the wedding pictures—not to fix my face, but to fix the bridesmaids of Frankenstein so they look like actual people, not genetically modified Barbie dolls.
Mom-zilla’s daughter’s wedding is the weekend after this one. What’s going to happen when she sees my new look? Will Mom-zilla battle Bridezilla? And if so, can I sell tickets to recoup some of the fortune that I just paid to look like anyone but myself?
Feeling better, I hit “Publish.” Then I took a selfie and sent it to Megan. This happened.
She called me immediately. “That’s a filter, right?”
“Nope. Caryn dyed my hair.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“That’s so disrespectful.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you have three more weddings coming up. She’s not the only one who wants her bridesmaids to look a certain way.”
My mouth dropped open. “What?” I asked quietly.
“You’ve still got a month before mine so you have plenty of time to dye it back without totally frying your hair. But like, it would have been nice if she’d consulted with some of us. What’s your sister going to say?”
It took me a minute before I could respond. “I’m getting another call,” I said finally, copping out. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay, love you. The eyelashes are great, by the way! Talk later.”
Did I have any normal friends left? Or did weddings turn everyone into unrecognizable zombies who fed on bridesmaids instead of brains?
I heard the front door to the apartment open and Becca called my name. “I’m just grabbing some clothes,” she called from the living room, the sound of her voice moving closer. She stopped in the doorway to my room. “Oh. You’re home. What did you do to your hair?” I looked up. “Are you wearing fake lashes?”
“Caryn had a bridesmaid salon day to get ready for the wedding.”
“Isn’t her wedding not for two weeks?”
“They chemically straightened my hair. I can’t wash it for three days, so it’ll be perfect by then. And the lashes last a month.”
“How much did all of that cost?”
I shook my head. “You don’t even want to know.”
“Wow,” she said, flopping down on my bed. “I know I haven’t seen you much lately, but I didn’t expect you to look like a completely different person.”
“Yeah. I didn’t either when I woke up this morning.” I looked her over. “You look good.”
She smiled. “I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA.”
“Don’t be. Things going well?”
“Oh my God, Lily, you have no idea. Will is amazing.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“It still doesn’t feel real. Like, wasn’t I the yoga pants queen a couple months ago?”
“You certainly were.”
She reached across the divide and grabbed my hand. “It’ll happen for you too, you know. When you’re not expecting it.”
“Well, I’ve got a gross guy who I’ve already slept with telling everyone he’s going to hook up with me at the wedding—possibly right on the dance floor, I don’t have all the details—and a fake boyfriend defending my honor, so I think I’ve got enough on my plate without dating right now. But thanks.”
“Blog about it,” she said. “You always have the best stories.”
“Just did. You can read all about it.”
She grinned. “Can’t wait.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
My baby sister’s bachelorette party. Five words, endless degradation. When a thirty-two-year-old woman is forced to don a bedazzled “bridesmaid” shirt, candy necklace, and condom belt and walk around with penis straws, it certainly lacks the appeal that it may have for the twenty-four-year-old bride and her posse of barely legal friends.
Yet this is the situation I find myself forced into tonight. The bridesmaids and I have rented a hotel room, decorated it with a penis pi?ata (filled with condoms and penis-shaped lollipops, the former of which I was forced to buy in bulk), and set up the party with penis glasses and a penis-shaped cake. I have truly reached the point where if I see another penis, even a real one, I will run screaming. But isn’t that how most married women feel? Watch out, baby sis, you’ll be tired of them soon enough.
Whereas I, still woefully single, am probably pushing my impending spinsterhood further and further toward permanency by wearing what I am currently wearing. Not that I’m expecting to pick up guys at my sister’s bachelorette party, but as my grandmother pointed out, it would be nice to have a date to all of these weddings.* Even if that means I do, in fact, eventually have to look at another penis.
*Of course, thanks to “no ring, no bring,” I’m not allowed to bring dates to these weddings anyway. It’s barbaric, really, and lets all those groomsmen think they have a chance. So many more penises that I don’t want to see!
I would post a picture of this hideousness, but then my anonymity would be destroyed, as would my relationship with all five brides. So I’m sorry, dear readers, you’ll have to use your imaginations.
Meanwhile I will probably spend my evening using the endless supply of ponytail holders on my wrist to keep the twenty-four-year-olds’ hair out of their faces while they puke up the ridiculous amount of Fireball they have already started consuming.
Wish me luck! I’m going to need it . . .
I hit “Publish” and slid my phone into my back pocket. Then I sighed and looked in the hotel mirror again. I looked like a moron. Ashlee had joined me at the hotel to help set up and made the condom belts for the bridal party. She thought they were cute.
My phone vibrated. That was fast, I thought, assuming I had already gotten my first comment. But it was a text from Alex. Have fun tonight! with an eggplant emoji and a puking face. I laughed.
I’m wearing a bedazzled tank top and a belt made out of condoms, I replied. And I just hung a penis pi?ata from a hotel room ceiling.
Penis pi?ata? Pics or it didn’t happen!
I snapped a picture of myself in the mirror with the pi?ata visible in the background, miming shooting myself in the head with my free hand and hit “Send.” Things I never thought I’d say before this year: I’m sick of penis cake.
Alex replied with the crying-laughing emoji and That condom belt is H-O-T.