Lovely

    Viewed outside the context of a rose-and-yellow wedding at the Sheraton Suites—two years in the making, custom-made bridal and attendants' gowns, a harpist, a jazz trio, a string quartet, top-shelf flowers, food, and booze, 160 bucks a head—it's just a look. One package of Flame Red henna, a little water, and two hours later, I resemble some kind of Greek goddess: wiry tresses wild, furious, and very, very, orange-red; Venus rising from the foam—or Pandora, perhaps, eyeing the box.

    My sister Carlice doesn't see it that way. She said, "I told you highlights, Angie, not a whole new color. I knew you'd do something like this." Then, fighting tears, "That just better be semi-permanent, and you better start washing it out right now." And, losing, "I'm the one they're supposed to be staring at."

   Now we stand among the orchids and jasmine, awaiting the next round of canapés, sipping a champagne recommended by the same consultant who had excitedly wrapped a swath of silk tulle around my head to "pull my hair off my face," to "complement my unique style"—a stop-gap measure that worked until the ring-bearer (who has his own issues with knickers and bow ties) yanked it free, just before I took my turn down the aisle. Mother slips her arm around Carlice's waist and sighs, a genuine if faintly cautious smile on her lips. When she says, "Well, isn't this lovely!" I am the first to raise my glass and reply, "Yes! Too… lovely!"