“It’s not a completely different color, just some balayage highlights to soften how dark your hair is.”
“I like how dark my hair is.”
Caryn threw her arms up in an exasperated gesture that I had come to know all too well. “You’re the only one with dark hair. I don’t want you to be the one who stands out the most in the pictures!”
“Caryn, you’re going to be wearing a wedding dress. No one is going to notice my hair color.”
“Then what’s the big deal if you change it a little?” she asked, arms crossed. I looked behind her at the other bridesmaids, who were all there for touch-ups only. Caroline smirked.
“So basically, you want me in your wedding as long as I look exactly like them”—I gestured over her shoulder—“and nothing like me.”
“Fat chance of that happening.” Caroline snickered loudly enough that she meant to be heard, though she would deny it if I said anything. Dana looked at me sympathetically. Caryn didn’t reply.
I bit the inside of my lip. Hard. And for the approximately nine-hundredth time, I debated just telling her I was done and walking away. But if I did that, she would never forgive me.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “As long as it’s just highlights, not a full color change.”
“If you’d read the email . . .” Caryn said, but I walked away and went back to the stylist’s chair.
“Subtle,” I warned her. “Or I’m going on Yelp.”
By the time I left the salon five hours later, I didn’t recognize the reflection of the girl in the mirror behind the checkout desk. The highlights were subtle by the stylist’s definition, but still more blonde than my hair had ever been before. My hair was stick-straight, with strict instructions not to let it “bend” or get wet for seventy-two hours, and I looked like a Kewpie doll with the eyelashes. If it wouldn’t have ruined them, I would have been shedding some angry tears.
I went home and sat down in front of my laptop.
Bridezilla A just attacked me at a salon.
No, like actual assault.
As I sat docilely in her stylist’s chair （cheating on my own stylist, no less） like a lamb waiting for the slaughter—or in this case, the keratin treatment to destroy the natural beachy waves that are the envy of so many people—the stylist, at the bride’s request, began dyeing my dark hair blonde.
Naturally, I protested, only to be told that if I had read Bridezilla’s latest email missive about the wedding （forgive me, dear Bridezilla, but your “wedding newsletters” have gotten longer than a CVS receipt and I believe you’re up to number fifty-seven—no joke!）， I would have known that my hair was about to change color. Because apparently not reading it is the same as giving consent? I didn’t even click an “I agree” box after not reading it, like I do with Apple notifications!
So let’s see, for this wedding alone, I have: lost seven pounds （not from actually trying, mind you, but from not being allowed to eat when I’m around the Bridezilla and her evil minions and the added stress of having to actually interact with these people）， become a straight-haired blonde, and now have gigantic eyelashes obscuring the top part of my vision. Is it legal to drive with these on? I feel like giant space spiders are invading every time I blink.
If this is how you live your daily life, more power to you. But to force it on others for the sake of “not ruining the pictures” is beyond absurd. Hasn’t she heard of Photoshop?
I did, however, stand my ground on the Botox issue. So I’m ruining the pictures anyway by being the only bridesmaid whose face still moves as nature intended. In fact, to fix that faux pas, I may hire someone to Photoshop the wedding pictures—not to fix my face, but to fix the bridesmaids of Frankenstein so they look like actual people, not genetically modified Barbie dolls.
Mom-zilla’s daughter’s wedding is the weekend after this one. What’s going to happen when she sees my new look? Will Mom-zilla battle Bridezilla? And if so, can I sell tickets to recoup some of the fortune that I just paid to look like anyone but myself?
Feeling better, I hit “Publish.” Then I took a selfie and sent it to Megan. This happened.
She called me immediately. “That’s a filter, right?”
“Nope. Caryn dyed my hair.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“That’s so disrespectful.”
“I know.”
“I mean, you have three more weddings coming up. She’s not the only one who wants her bridesmaids to look a certain way.”