What's in a Mane?

Text sent out to several of my girlfriends about two weeks ago:

"Of all the people we know, who's most likely to burn off half her hair in a freak colour mishap, six days before her wedding?"

(Hint: the answer is Me)

When I was in my twenties, I sincerely believed that I would no longer do dumb shit by the time I hit my thirties. And while I have immaculate credit and tiny rrsps that make me seem like a proper grown-up, I also do things like burn off half my hair. THE WEEK BEFORE MY WEDDING.


My friend, J usually does my colour for me. She's been busy giving birth to the most delightful little boy. So, my other friend (also a J) was planning to come help me out but she'd been out of town and needed some time with her delightful hubby.


My (now) hubby said,

"Are you sure you don't want to wait for one of your friends?"

This is not a story about how I took good advice...

When the bag over the colour started to get hot, I took it off. The hair underneath was BILLOWING smoke.

It melted off in huge chunks that resembled scorched SOS pads.

***Note to all you ladies: If you find a man who can make you laugh while you pull off your chemically melted hair by the fist full, I recommend that you marry this man as soon as possible***

I'm not immune to vanity, but I was fairly quick to pick up on the perspective that my love laid on me. I did not lose my hair because of chemo therapy. It's just hair.*

*All perspective aside, it was six days before my wedding. I cried, took two Cypralex and went to bed*

However...

I've learned that nothing happens "to" me. Not without my participation or consent.

So.

That begs the question: why in the name of all that's Holy would I do such a thing to myself?

The mystic in me conjures the image of the snake shedding her skin...the comic in me thinks I possibly did it for the cheap laugh at my own expense.

My very wise colleague, A suggested that my mind was so frazzled that I was vibrating at crazy high frequencies and quite literally fried my head.

Perhaps as a test? A fiance who can love a moulting woman can handle most adverse situations with ease. One of the only things that consoled me in the first half hour was his suggestion that I could blog about it one day :)

I kept enough hair for my bff's brilliant cousin to style it for the wedding. The next day, I cut it all off.

If you think you're not a vain person - try losing your hair. I always thought I was pretty chill, but in truth, I've hidden behind my hair for most of my adult life. Only when I'm at my slenderist have I ventured anywhere even remotely in the neighbourhood of short hair.

There's no place left to hide now...

Stay tuned for either:

A: a revolutionary life change

 

or

 

B: a wig

As my friend, J's mum used to say, "You take yourself with you wherever you go."

Love the one you're with,

Er

Let's finish with a hair montage, shall we?

They call me Dr Love

"It's a good and bad thing to be considered an expert in love. I don't think there's any point in pretending that you get to be an expert by meeting your soul mate early on, going through a few meaningful ups and downs, marrying in a cloud of good taste or even in a meteor shower of funk and crunk, and then dying, 50 or 60 years later, having had a faithful and fulfilling love life. We don't call those people experts. We call them lucky." (-Amy Bloom)

I am not one of these "lucky" few (nor, if you're interested is Amy Bloom, author of the above-referenced article). Some might say that I've done the research necessary in order to become an expert, however. If wisdom comes from learning from mistakes, I've made enough mistakes in love to be a sage.

Nonetheless, last Wednesday, I got married. Not for the first time. It's an entirely different matter to call oneself an optimist over the age of thirty (especially with so much mileage). However, I believe this story calls for a glass-half-full mentality.

Once upon a time...

In 1992...

two little girls met in Mrs Reid's fourth grade class.

(Hint: I am one of those two girls)

The other girl is my oldest and dearest friend, L. We celebrated our twentieth anniversary last summer in Vegas. We discovered that we are too old for roller coasters and met the actual living descendants of Captain and Maria Von Trapp (We went for tacos with them! At 2am! At Jack-in-the-Box!)

She is my family. She is my heart.

I have always loved the family that came with her (as she did mine) not just because they're awesome, but because they belong to her.


So. My point. I just married my best sister-friend's little brother.



Think about that friend.  The one with whom you first shaved (hacked) your legs. Who listened while you sang Rizzo's part in Grease (over and over). The one you call when your life falls over. The one who sends you flowers with quotes from Bio Dome on the card.

And then you fall in love with her brother and the two of you get married.

That's what I did. On Wednesday. August 14th because it was their beloved grandparents' wedding anniversary. I married my best friend's brother. Not only that, but I got to marry his WHOLE FAMILY. And he got to marry mine.

The whole thing is so filled with joyous memories that distilling it once again becomes my blessing and my curse.

Deep breath...

The day before the wedding, by miracle or design, my fiance and I find ourselves alone in a quiet house. It is a "Remember This Moment" moment. As though the collective sum of our troubled pasts has somehow imploded to create something unspeakably perfect.

Our sister (!!!) L and her amazing partner collected driftwood from Kootenay Lake and created a stunning arch under which we
were married.

 

Everyone cooked. My dad played guitar and sang a playlist (vetted by my mother) of the best love songs ever written. My new brother-in-law brought his turntables all the way from Calgary and played the most beautiful and irreverent set you could imagine.

We wore what we felt like wearing. My new husband wore a Canucks hat and purple high tops. I wore white. Yeah. I know.

We didn't send out invitations. Mostly, we ran into people who were really excited to spend our wedding Day with us and those people showed up.

It was the perfect day. It is the perfect love. The perfect family.

Listen Friends: I would never pretend that I was patient with love. Even if I tried to get away with it, no one who's ever met me would buy it.

I lost faith in love many times after nearly killing myself trying to convince the world of my worth (or lack thereof). I tried so many goddamned times to give my love to people who didn't want it.

My dear friend, J's mom, Donna used to say, "Better no one than an asshole." Now. Not all of the men I've spent time with were assholes. Some were very lovely. Some would qualify in spades. Nonetheless, I venture to expand Donna's saying oh-so-slightly to include, "Better no one than the wrong one."

I cannot say if this is true for you. It has been true for me. Insincerity chafes at the crotch for me. I never get away with it for long before Life kicks me hard in the proverbial junk.

And so, after many years of swimming against the stream, I gave in and adopted a dog. I had pined for a dog for many years. "I'm alone every night. Why not?" This was the physical manifestation of my deciding to make my solo life a joyous one. Not by going to the bar. I was a single mom. I learned to step out beyond the limitations of barely tolerating my own company into the liberating territory of loving myself. It has not been easy. I do not pretend that your road has been easy or will be easy. In fact, I'm SO SORRY for how hard it has already been.

All I can promise is that it's worth it. Please believe me. Just a little?

This bitch got her happily ever after when all hope was exhausted. My best friend is my sister. Her brother is my husband. He's the yin to my yang. The perfect fit. He loves my child the way parents do. He does, like, all the dishes. Seriously. 85% or more.



Please wait. Or don't wait. Make your life as awesome as possible the way it is now. That way, if your perfect fit never shows up, at least you're having a kick-ass time of it.

That was my "strategy" anyway.

From someone who's been there,

-Er

Ode to girl friends

If all my friends were to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't jump with them, I'd be at the bottom to catch them

- Unknown

I am ALL about my best girlfriends. Not just today, but always. Not to be totally dramatic (never!) but I would die without them.

They have picked me up (some of them multiple times), seen me through, seen through me and loved me when the best I could muster for myself was mild disdain.

This post is a love letter to my lady friends, the world over.

You know the ones. The ones with whom you can pick back up after the greatest distance and longest time and laugh like twelve year olds. The ones who will take your call in the middle of the night when you are in distress (love you, L).

They help you move (literally and figuratively), drive you to the airport and style your hair.

Don't get me wrong. I count my fiance, dad and bro among my tightest and bestest friends. But there are some convos you can only have with your nearest and dearest gf's.

J (via text): I may never eat gluten again. Feel free to stage an intervention if I do.

Me: I know! Isn't your poop so much better?! My gluten- free poop is so much nicer!

J (after a short pause): That is a lot of personal information. Your secret is safe with me.

***NOTE: bloggers blog their secrets***

Me: BFF's talk about their poop.

J: Yeah. We do.

One of my BFF's, M recently drove six hours to bring me Cinnzeo and spend less than a day with me for my birthday. Slimy, peely leper-looking face masks, Indian food and so many more laughs than I can count and then she drove six hours home. Who does that?!

My friends do. Dear God, I love them.

They have baked birthday cakes for me, convinced me to stop wearing mascara on my bottom lashes, given me funny nicknames (Lefty comes from A after I called to complain of having forgotten to put deodorant on my left armpit) and been so very patient and encouraging as I stumbled and fumbled my way through life.

They come with kind menfolk who have been my Knights in Shining Armour while I waited for my own to arrive.

They live in Victoria, Vancouver, Nicaragua, the West Kootenays and just down the street. We have known each other all our lives or just a few months. It doesn't matter. They are so dear to me.

Our lives are busy and sometimes the best we can manage is a text message...

(Actual text message received from my cousin)

And this is my love letter to them.

I love you. Thank you for including me and my kiddo even though we threw off your table by being single. Thank you for sending flowers and prayers and holding my hand when I fell apart. You are warrior queens, every single one of you and my life is richer and infinitely more fabulous for having known you.

You bless me with your friendship and talk of bowel movements.

You know who you are.


With love and friendship,

Er