Kate Holbrook and Allie, Carter’s girlfriend, exchanged a look. Liz seemed sad.
“No one wants to have their hair done?”
Dana Holbrook didn’t even pretend she was going to volunteer. All the other women all had very nice hair and fresh blowouts. If I were them, I wouldn’t want some hairdresser I didn’t know touching my perfect locks. However, I was not them. My hair was a rat’s nest on a good day, and if the hairdressers were going to wash and comb out my mess of curls while I just lay there, well, there were worse ways to pass an afternoon.
I decided to take one for the team.
“Let’s get you washed up,” my mom said as I made my way to the sink station. I looked longingly at Liz and the other bridesmaids, who were settling in for a long session with drinks and a super-duper fancy charcuterie board.
Liz was being taken care of by a nicer, happier-looking stylist, who was showing her various trendy bridal hairstyles.
“So,” I whispered to my mom, “who have you been sleeping with? I need a list.”
She mashed her lips together into a thin line. “I can’t remember.”
“Seriously? You literally cannot remember?”
“It was twenty two years ago!” She scrubbed at my hair, pulling on it.
“Ow!”
“Considering how horrible and curly your hair is,” she hissed at me, “it’s probably this guy named Carl. He was aStar Trekfan and liked to go to conventions. He never showered.”
“Then why did you sleep with him?” I whispered in shock.
My mother shrugged. “He had money.”
I tried to ignore my mother through the rest of the hair styling. The stylist doing Liz’s hair was a master. She was giving Liz a soft, feminine updo with the hair sectioned into dozens of pieces and then interwoven with tiny flowers and small antique brooches. The whole effect was ethereal, classy, and beautiful.
“Liz, you look amazing,” I gushed.
My friend beamed then turned to inspect my hair as my mother sprayed on half a can of hairspray as the finishing touch. Liz jumped up and down and clapped as the bridesmaids looked on in horror.
“It looks just like the picture!” Liz exclaimed and pulled up a screenshot on her phone of her grandmother’s 1970s wedding.
To my mom’s credit, the monstrosity on my head did match the photo. It was some sort ofLittle House on the Prairiemash-up with a large beehive bun and then, inexplicably, large sausage ringlets around my face.
Liz had clearly reached the irrational portion of her pregnancy in which peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches and seventies-style hair and makeup seemed like good, even enviable, ideas.
“It is exactly what I wanted,” Liz insisted, jabbing at the phone in excitement.
“Liz,” Kate said gently, “I don’t think this is going to give you the classy wedding look you’re going for.”
“You don’t like it?” Liz asked, chin wobbling.
“Liz,” Allie said in a no-nonsense tone. “Seventies costume ball is not an acceptable hairstyle for a nice wedding. Now here are three options. Pick one, and the stylist will show you what that would look like.”
A tear leaked down Liz’s cheek.
“We don’t want to give any of the guys a stroke when they see us all trooping down the aisle,” Dana said dryly. “It will look like we’re all about to sign onto a death cult.”
“I don’t want the wedding to feel like a cult!” Liz exclaimed.
“Is Wes inviting all those Svensson brothers?” Kate asked in bemusement. “Because they basically take the cult with them wherever they go.”
Allie laughed as she slid into the salon chair. The younger stylist gave her a low bun at the nape of her neck and slightly to the side. I sighed longingly as the hairstyle took shape. I patted my own shellacked beehive.
“I still think it looks super cool and retro,” Liz whispered to me, handing me a plate of charcuterie to share. “I envisioned a little fascinator hat right on the side of your head. It would have been epic!”
