Despite the fact that I bought two emergency boxes of brown hair dye in hopes of saturating through the Unnatural Pitch Fucking Black, I couldn't summon the courage to use them. I had flashbacks of sitting in my hairdresser's chair at 16 as she looked at my fried bleach blonde mess with her jaw hanging agape, trying to find the right words to soften the blow that my roots were so damaged that it would likely snap off at the skull if she didn't immediately intervene.
So even though my friend's wedding was a mini reunion of sorts with some of my college roommates who I hadn't seen in almost 10 years, I was forced to suck it up and go with The Worst Box Dye Job of All Time.
The wedding was absolutely lovely. It was at a local vineyard -- a location I had wanted to book for our reception, but eventually came in second. I'm not sure what the high point was. Yes, seeing my friends was up there. Having an adult night out was great. And dancing with Jerry until I got blisters was exhilarating.
But really? What it truly comes down to? Either the chick who carried around the lobster-sized shrimp appetizer. Or the bride and her brother doing a choreographed dance that included the Macarana, Thriller and the final scene in "Dirty Dancing."
I didn't take as many photos as I would've liked -- much to Jerry's displeasure because he felt obligated to haul around my huge camera bag even though I told him repeatedly it didn't bother me -- but I did drink enough beer that I had a lapse in judgement and actually posed for a few group shots.
I'm the one who looks like someone took a Sharpie to my skull.
Jerry is going to be so pissed at this photo. He's never smiling in
group shots. It's like instead of blinking, when the flash goes off,
he smirks. Anyway, this was our table. Courtney in pink with her
husband, Matt. Court's brother, Chris, is next to me. And his wife,
Jamie, is on the other side. Chris and Court's mom took the picture.