Don't pull my hair

My best friend got married this past weekend. She was beautiful, as was to be expected, and the wedding was wonderful. It did not, however, go off without some hiccups in my world. (Luckily, my world was way down on the list of important things that day. J.'s world was top priority, as it should have been.)

Hiccup one was my hair. The stylist, a darling gay man who practices his updo skills on drag queens, took one look at my hair when I walked in and started shaking his head.

"Curls." He grabbed a handful of hair. "Thick curls."

Then, ladies and gentleman, he took a blow-dryer AND a brush to my hair. I haven't brushed my hair whilst it was curly since I was in my early teens. He now looked aghast at the halo of frizz that he had created. Diana Ross had nothing on me.

He threw me in hot rollers for awhile, then started twisting and tugging. I no longer had curls. I had knots - twisted ropes of hair tied into knots. It was cool, I'll give him that. It also took me forty-five minutes to get undone when I came home that night. DH helped me pull out all the bobby-pins (68), and my hair didn't move. The knots had to be untied, unrolled, and washed out with conditioner. Just a word of advice for you stylists reading: if the hair is curly, just leave it curly. There is no need to attempt to make it follow the straight hair rules. It doesn't want to follow those rules. It is a hair government anarchist.

Either way, hair went up, make-up went on, and dress was wiggled into. We'll call that adventure one of the day.