Posts tagged True wedding story
Posts tagged True wedding story
Wouldn’t it be fun if you could part of a wedding where they played games, gave you jewelry and fancy “good luck” egg rolls? What if you got to watch the groom literally jump through hoops to marry his bride? Wouldn’t you feel lucky to be part of such a beautiful event?
Well I was, but I was there against my will. I had just finished a wedding styling when the traditional Chinese Tea ceremony started. It begins with the bridesmaids blocking the door, making the groom play games, sing songs and in this case, hula hoop to get to his bride. And try as I might, I could not get out of the house. I couldn’t even tell the family that I needed to leave, because the bride was the only one that spoke English and she was a little busy.
Instead, I stood awkwardly in the foyer, hoping for a gap in the space where the family had crowded around, so I could make my great escape. Every time I tried to leave, I was bombarded by photographers who apparently thought I was part of the festivities. When I tried to sneak out the back door, the old Chinese lady Grandma fed me more pot stickers. I was stuck. Stuck inside a Chinese House.
By the time the bride and groom started serving tea and receiving their gifts, the doorway was clear and I finally got to leave. At this point I was a little annoyed. I had spent a lot of time being stuck there and was hoping for some family heirlooms myself. Turns out the jewelry is just for the happy couple - blah, blah, blah.
Anyways, the Chinese tea ceremony is a really cool tradition and if you know more details about it, please share. Because I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure taking your hair stylist hostage is not part of it.
From the time Babylonia (yes, Babylonia) Aivaz was a little girl, she dreamed of the beautiful wedding she’d have with a building. Yesterday, that dream came true. Family, friends and neighbors were supportive of this warehouse-on-woman relationship. Though they do have their doubts on how long the relationship will last, because the warehouse is 107 years old and is about to be torn down to make room for condos.
Babylonia refused to find a new fiance. She didn’t want a younger building in her life, she wanted HER warehouse, because when you know, you just know. Though they moved fast (they just met last month), she couldn’t help but fall in love with this community space. She pictured the years they’d spend together, raising babies and/or bungalows, and having a wonderful life together.
Of course the mother-of-the-bride, aka the city of Seattle, tried to run the wedding its way. They’ve already torn down parts of the warehouse. Babylonia however, said it didn’t matter. Her betrothed was as beautiful as ever.
Babylonia wore a beautiful white gown with headband-style veil and the warehouse wore drywall and brick, with a traditional roof. The two will be honeymooning in a scrap yard.
When I got engaged, I had a thunder stealing coworker. We’ll call her Schmennifer - because her real name was Jennifer. She went from congratulating me, to planning her own wedding.
Schmennifer: “Are you going to have a photo booth?”
Me: “I don’t know yet…”
Schmennifer: “Chocolate fountain? Live doves? Petting zoo?”
Schmennifer: “When I get married, I’m going to have an ice sculpture and a 12 piece string quartet. Did you get that link to the Vera Wang dress I’m getting?”
Me: “It’s beautiful. So are you seeing someone?”
Schmennifer: “No, but might as well plan now so I don’t have to skimp… no offense.”
I wasn’t offended by her continuous one-upping me with a pretend wedding, because my real wedding was between me and my fiance (and, sigh - our mothers). But then one particularly rainy Monday, she got super bitchy.
Schmennifer: “Your ring is dull because it’s white gold. I only wear platinum.”
I’d had it, “Bitch, back off!” Only it was just in my head. I never actually got the nerve to stand up for myself, because Schmennifer was hit by a car that very night.*
I planned my wedding without listening to any of Schmennifer’s jealous advice. And I felt bad, not because she wasn’t engaged, but because if she ever does get engaged, some poor sap will have to deal with her for the rest of his life.
* Unfortunately only in my dreams.
I work hard at my job. Not as hard as say, being a stay-at-home mom or a firefighter, but certainly harder than a lot of jobs, like Congressman or video game tester. I make sure my bride’s makeup looks absolutely perfect and will last all night long, even through the tears of happiness (or anger) from the wedding. This often means being on-site super early in the morning and standing on my feet for hours and hours.
The work gets harder when brides do stupid stuff to mess up their makeup, because then I have to redo it. To prevent doubling my workload, please don’t
- go into the bathroom when the shower is running. Sure it was a smart way to steam-iron your veil, but it’s a dumb way to steam-smear your eyeliner.
- rub your eyes like you’re angry at them. Dab. Dab.
- distract the bride, beginning a chain reaction where she moves and I poke her in the eye with a mascara wand, causing mass chaos (this is for the bridesmaids and for the record, no bride of mine has ever lost an eye).
These mistakes can be avoided and will leave your face looking gorgeous and me with enough time to finish the rest of the wedding party’s makeup.
Still, there are times that no one can prevent a makeup mishap.
I had just finished a bride’s makeup when there was a knock at her door. The maid of honor answered it and there stood a woman playing guitar. She had been hired by the soon-to-be husband to sing a original song he’d written for his bride. It was uber sweet and romantic, like something straight out of a Hugh Grant movie that no real husband could ever live up to. Even though I didn’t know the couple, I started tearing up. How could I expect the bride not to be a blubbering mess? We’re not talking delicate, gentle crying. This was hands in the face, nose running, complete disregard for my work, crying. Gone was the makeup and out came the puffy red face. But for once, I was ok with it. As the mascara rolled down her face, I realized that sometimes it’s worth having to redo the makeup.
… Oh and then I went home and yelled at my own husband for never surprising me with a romantic song he’d written and hired someone to sing.
The first sign that a bride is going to be a pain in the ass is when she books her hair trial a whole year in advance. Ladies, you do not need to figure out your hair style that early, a month or two will suffice. But I digress. Since this bride had been recommended by a friend, I booked her appointment.
The mid-twenty something year old walked in my studio and in the first couple of minutes of small talk, I figured out a couple things her.
1. She was definitely a “glass is half empty” person.
2. She was getting married because as she put it, “I might as well be with someone that I don’t hate being around.” (Ahh, true love!)
The third point I would then figure out real quickly:
3. She had HORRIBLE taste.
Now when a bride comes in for a trial, she often brings in pictures for inspiration. In fact, it’s encouraged. This way I can see what she’s envisioning and try to make her look the way she’s always dreamed. I’m not trying to pat myself on the back, but I have a pretty good reputation for being able to accomplish this. I’ll give advice if asked, but otherwise, it’s your wedding, girl. It’s your call. With this bride, I couldn’t help but judge because she brought in a picture from her prom. Her prom!
(NOTE: If you are an adult, don’t look to your awkward, pimple filled high school years for fashion tips.)
Despite my own opinions, I did my best to accommodate. She explained to me that her hairstylist at the time (it was made clear that the only reason she was coming to me was because she couldn’t reach her formal stylist), had taken a tiny curling iron, made itty bitty curls all over her head and then pinned them all over her head. “It was so beautiful! Everyone said my hair looked like brains.”
“Brains… seriously? You’re joking, right? Brains? You did that to yourself on purpose? Why on earth would you want your hair to look like the inside of a head!?” Of course I didn’t say any of this out loud. I simply smiled, nodded and put her hair into itty bitty curls, beginning the process of turning it into grey matter.
(NOTE: Unless you’re a zombie, if your friends say your hair looks like brains, IT’S NOT A COMPLIMENT.)
I kept referring to the picture she’d brought, trying to figure out what the hell she was drawn to. I just didn’t get it. Clearly her high school “friends” didn’t know what else to say other than, “Your head looks like the weird gooey substance from your central nervous system. It’s umm… so…beautiful?” They probably didn’t even say it to her face, just whispering about her inside-out cranium behind her back.
My skin crawled as I allowed myself to work on the hideous style and rather than chat with her like I usually would, I thought hard, trying to figure out how I was going to politely ask her not to let people know I was the stylist that did this to her head. (I’m not putting my signature on that!)
The picture she’d brought was a typical prom photo with the guy uncomfortably standing behind the girl, awkwardly smiling in hopes the night will end with him getting laid. And since she didn’t have a decent 360 degree shot of the entire look, I couldn’t really figure it out. I tried asking her to give me more details so we could work together in achieving the goal, but by the end of the appointment her negativity had worn me out and I no longer gave a shit.
Don’t get me wrong, I tried. I really did. I did my best to sculpt the cerebellum, parietal lobe and various cortex’s of the brain all out of stiff hair-sprayed curls, but science has never been my strong suite. Yet, somehow she wasn’t satisfied. In the end, she left my place with a style that resembled a mix between my Grandmother’s and Little Orphan Annie’s hair.
I knew it wasn’t right and I suspect she knew it as well. Perhaps when she left my studio, she overheard people whispering about her hair, just like they had in high school. And maybe when she went to the next stylist she told her, “it was so beautiful, everyone said my hair looked like a bowl of macaroni.” Since I never spoke to Brain Bride again, I’ll never know, and I’m at peace with that. Because all I know is that it was the first time I turned down a bride.