Memories in hair

T and I are going to a gala this evening. Doesn't that sound fabulously fancy and fun? Not least because it's a lowly Tuesday but also, we rarely attend such events. As it happens, we're the lucky guests of friends for the St. Jude's fete tonight, and I'm very excited: great cause, wonderful pals, cocktail dresses, a date with my hubs. None of that happens often enough so yee-haw! I decided to get my hair done and while sitting in the stylist's chair today, hair spray and bobby pins a'flying, I thought back to my wedding day and the copious amounts of pins and shellac that went into my matrimonial coif. I loved it; it was a sleek but not severe updo, hair pulled back and swept away from my face, twisted and turned into a beautiful bun just high enough to hold a small tiara and the clip of my veil. My lovely helmet did not budge that night- not through veil shifts and removal, tremendous amounts of dancing and a full outfit change just before T and I headed off to our hotel. Impressive.

Yet once at the hotel, I really wanted to let my hair loose and brush it out. Had I remembered to pack a brush? I had not, and by the time I hand-picked the hundreds of pins out and finger-combed the bun to freedom, I looked like Medusa and T was nearly asleep. As it turns out, I'd also forgotten eye makeup remover, and the aftermath of waterproof mascara, fake eyelashes and a basic bar of hand-soap really left me looking fairly rough. Good times, good memories.

Quick note of hilarity about today's style: midway through he asked, "How's this looking?" It was bordering on bouffant so I said, "Well, slightly high, actually. I feel like I'm from Dallas." Without missing a beat, M replied, "The higher the hair, the closer to God," before chuckling mischievously and cinching things tight. I about fell out.