Cheryl, a nice girl from New Jersey, is doing my hair for the wedding. Cheryl and I go way back - back to a time when I was growing out of my Joan Jett 'do and into Sissy Spacek in "Coal Miner's Daughter" (best movie ever). It was a vulnerable time for me and my hair - my hair and I had a very tenuous relationship, having gone through some rough patches together. Cheryl rescued me from my feathery mullet, and for that I am eternally grateful.
I know I can count on Cheryl because she wears eyelash extensions but can also beat the crap out of an unsuspecting mugger. Homegirl has guns. Being from New Jersey means she understands big hair, so when I told her "Brigitte Bardot meets Gibson Girl" she said, "YES."
Which is exactly what I wanted to her to say.
Because my greatest fear is ending up with a horrible shellacked updo plastered to my skull. I need volume, I crave height. I operate under the maxim, "Big hair, small hips." The bigger the hair, the more cupcakes you can eat.
We chatted about how to make my hair as big as possible. "I want it BIG," I said, while Cheryl nodded vigorously. And I didn't even flinch when she uttered the words, "So you're gonna go to Wigs Plus..."
Apparently, I need a WEFT, whatever that is (let's hope not one of those ponytails cut off of virgins offering their hair to Hindu gods, which then ends up glued to the head of some chick from "Jersey Shore"). All I know is that when you go to YouTube and type in "Amy Winehouse hairstyle," "bouffant," "beehive" and "Sixties updo" some magical shit happens.
(Almost as magical as when you type in "botfly larvae removed from skull.")
P.S. Are we loving Sophia Loren in these pictures? Yes we are.
