Thursday, May 11, 2006
I still haven’t bought anything to wear to the wedding this Friday. I had vaguely thought about what I might wear, but wasn’t too concerned until my mother started quizzing me with the assumption that I would buy something specifically for the event. She even suggested I spend the gift card she gave me for my birthday on a new outfit for the occasion, under the illusion, one can only assume, that $50 at David Jones would buy more than a sock. I told her I’d already decided to buy a couple of pillows since I’d just realised that I’ve never bought a pillow myself—the ones on my bed were all second-hand ten years ago and by now they are well and truly soaked with drool. In fact I was lucky to get two pillows from David Jones; did you know you can spend $130 on just one pillow? Maybe if I’m creative and cut a few holes for my head and arms from a pillow case (extra-large European size), David Jones can outfit me for my sister’s wedding.
Anyway, I knew it wouldn’t do me much good to think too seriously about any clothes purchases until I got paid. I had done a half-hearted tour of my usual haberdasher in anticipation of a shopping expedition, but for once they disappointed me. I think it’s that the dark colours of winter fashion don’t seem to be appropriate for an afternoon garden wedding. Going back there today, ready to part with some hard-earned cash, my disillusion was confirmed. I want something light and floaty, yet not too hippy-ish, something stylish and reasonably priced, that doesn’t provoke a fat-day when I try it on. They had very nice ‘lounge suits’, one of which I bought for use as a pair of the much needed pyjamas I mentioned a few days back, but unless I go to the wedding as J-Lo... No, I’ve rechecked the wedding invitation, fancy dress is not an option.
I successfully diverted myself from the schmancy clothes dilemma by getting my hair cut. I went to the hairdressing school and signed a form relinquishing the students of any responsibility should they accidentally set fire to me or even give me a bad haircut. Happily, I had a very competent and personable student hairdresser. After she cut my hair, I agreed that she could straighten it. Now, I’ve had my hair blow-dried straight before, but I have these screw-curls on the underneath of my hair that tend to revolt three minutes after I leave the hairdressers. When the threat of the scalding heat of the hairdryers and the pulling torture of curling brushes has abated, my hair usually turns itself up in contempt at my wish for a few hours of manageable, glossy hair. Today, however, the student hairdresser wielded a hair straightener and, seven hours later, my hair is still quivering in fear. I think it may continue to be scared until tomorrow, at least until my sister doesn’t recognise me when she comes to pick me up. My hair is so flat, I don’t even recognise myself. I have the look of Courtney-Cox-Arquette-Jennifer-Aniston-Pitt-after-she-got-the-hair-cut-that-ruined-her-marriage-and-career. It’s not a look I consciously strived for, but until I hit the shower then ‘I’ll be there for you, doo-doo-doo-doo-doo’.
And then it’ll go completely haywire when I tear it out as I resume the search for the wedding outfit.