My mother-in-law surprised me a few weeks ago by giving me the cash to get my hair done for the special event. My original plan was to just battle my locks on my own with my crummy curling iron, but this idea sounded WAY better. I found a picture of Blake Lively in a recent issue of Glamour and asked the stylist if she could recreate a similar french twist on me (I also asked her if she could give me Blake's make-up and body, but no dice). During the whole "do' creation process", I couldn't see what the back of my head looked like. But, judging by all the people that stopped by her styling station and started taking pictures, I knew it was at least looking half-way decent.
I've never had a formal up-do before and was beyond thrilled with the results. With minimal teasing, my stylist created the illusion of a much thicker head of hair than I was originally blessed with. Holding a mirror up to gaze at the back of the finished product, I knew that even if I stuttered or fell over during my scripture reading, at least my hair would look good.
This wedding also made Clayton and I painfully aware of just how deep my love of cake runs. Weddings call for lots of cake and, since the day before the wedding was my brother-in-law's birthday, the rehearsal dinner had cake, too. While eating birthday cake at my table in the banquet hall, Clay asked if he could have a bite of the giant glob of blue icing sitting on top of my piece. Smiling, I said no. He thought I was joking. I wasn't. I love my husband, but cake is cake. He picked up his fork and made a move for it anyway, completely ignoring the fact that I told him no, he absolutely could not have any of my blue icing.
We're confident that with enough time his stab wound will heal. But, if it does happen to leave a scar, at least it will forever serve as a reminder that he shall never come between his wife and her cake.
At the wedding reception, Clay sat at the head table since he was a member of the bridal party. When the cake was served, he glanced uneasily at me across the room, making sure he was safe to eat his cake in peace. I simply waved my fork at him and smiled.
When I turned 22, Joey ate my birth cake. My. Entire. Birthday. Cake. Now where on earth would he get an idea like that?...