How I Planned Your Wedding (11 page)

“I’m going to give you something extra special,” she commented as she raked a comb over the top of my head, causing the right and left sides of my hair to form large furry bumps at my temples.

She pulled out a Bedazzled white plastic daisy with a flourish. I was shocked. The flower’s plastic stem was wrapped gaudily with lace and strands of cheap silver sequins. I didn’t know an upscale salon like this would ever allow something so obscene within a two-mile radius of the premises. I watched in a near panic as she lowered the thing to the base of the ponytail she’d created and shoved it in. I could feel it scraping my scalp, a painful reminder of how difficult it would be to detangle my hair later that evening.

I managed a shaky smile, realizing there was nothing I could say or do to make this stylist good at doing hair. She was a lost cause. I tried to forget about the $80 price tag of this trial and set my sights on getting out of there as quickly as possible. Without letting her add any finishing touches to the monstrosity perched on my head, I exclaimed how pretty I looked, shook her hand and bolted for the door. I stopped long enough to pay for the trial and leave her a tip (she did
try,
after all, and I’ve never been a fan of stiffing service people on their tips).

As I slinked back to my car, hoping I wouldn’t pass anyone I knew, my phone buzzed. It was Dave, calling to remind me that I was supposed to be at a cupcake tasting.

People, I had managed to keep myself together about the whole hair drama up until that point. I hadn’t yet shed a tear over my bad updo trials, and I’d maintained a sense of humor about how ridiculously bad my hair had looked each time. I hadn’t allowed myself to add up just how much money this bevy of appointments was costing me, and I refused to think about the number of hours I’d wasted squirming in the leather chairs of Seattle’s salons. But this time I wasn’t going to be able to go home, jump in the shower and erase all memory (other than a digital photo) of this horrific hairstyle. I had to go meet our wedding planners, Dave and our cupcake gal, with my hair looking like something pulled from a locker room shower drain.

I plunked myself down on a bench in the parking lot. I pulled out my phone, looked at the time and told myself I was allowed to flip out for five minutes. Then I had to go back to being a self-deprecating, up-beat bride who was completely confident in the belief that her wedding would go off without a hitch.

And then, friends, I had a five-minute sob-fest. This wasn’t your normal, run-of-the-mill hiccupping cry. This was snot flying out of my nose in slimy projectiles that landed on the asphalt at my feet. Tears squirted in arcs from my eyes into my lap and drenched the ugly little pieces of hair the stylist had let hang in my face. I could feel my cheeks pulsing beet red as I struggled for breath, and my saliva got all thick and spitty the way a toddler’s does when she’s throwing a tantrum. My fingers curled into fists of rage, fingernails digging into the hot skin on the palms of my hands. Pit stains drenched through my shirt from my crying effort and I flapped my elbows wildly in a vain attempt to avoid getting body odor before my cupcake appointment.

It was epic.

And it lasted exactly five minutes.

Then I snorted my remaining snot back into my nose, dried my
eyes, took a deep breath and forced myself to stop.

I arrived at my cupcake tasting appointment only a few minutes late, and though my eyes were still red and swollen, I knew nobody could tell just how intense my five-minute breakdown had been.

Heather, one of the Good Taste girls, was joining us for the appointment. When she saw my face, coupled with the disgusting pile of hair on my head, she immediately put her arm around me. “I have a friend who is
great
at updos,” she said. “Trust me—she’s done my hair before. I’ll give her a call and we can stop this nonsense.”

I won’t lie to you; I didn’t completely trust her. I’d been burned too many times before. But I meekly agreed to meet with Heather’s friend and resolved to get through my cupcake tasting without any more fretting about my hair.

When I walked into the little room where we would be trying flavors, though, Dave was waiting for me. He knew me well enough to keep his trap shut about the cowpie on my head, but I could tell he was concerned by the obvious fact that I’d been crying.

“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Heather’s got a plan.”

And then I got to eat cupcakes, so I was a happy camper.

Later that afternoon, when Dave and I were both back at work, he IMed me. I could tell he’d been giving my hair trauma some thought, and I knew he genuinely wanted me to be happy with the way I looked on our wedding day. I also knew he didn’t want me to be so done-up that he wouldn’t recognize me at the end of the aisle. He started the conversation by talking to me about how great the cupcakes had been, how excited he was, yadda yadda yadda…and just as we were about to sign off, he said:

(For the record, that conversation is an unedited copy and paste. Isn’t my hubby so cute, even on IM?)

I had to give the guy credit: he might not have known the correct terminology to use when trying to talk about hairstyles, but he had a point. My hair looked nice on a daily basis. I just had to find someone who could add a little bit of va-va-voom to what I naturally had.

Heather set up an appointment with her friend, Jacquelynn, who owned Sorella Salon just east of Seattle. Heather and Jacquelynn met me in Sorella’s cozy lobby, offered me a glass of iced tea and sat me down to talk about my updo journey—the good, the bad and the frizzy. I showed them photographs from my prior traumas, and they shook their heads sympathetically.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said Jacquelynn.

From that moment on, I was in the hands of a true master. Jacquelynn smoothed my hair, brushing it out to a glossy sheen before taking a flat iron and constructing the shiny, loopy curls Eva Longoria wore in my inspiration photograph. While she and Heather entertained me with stories of other weddings they’d worked on together, she pinned my curls back, forming a soft pile at the nape of my neck and pulling a couple of pieces forward to frame my face.

Before I knew it, she unclipped the smock I was wearing to protect my clothes.

My hair…it was perfect. She’d taken the red carpet photograph I’d shown her and created a beautiful style that flattered my face like nothing I’d ever dreamed possible. It was, dare I say,
better
than Eva Longoria’s hair.

Jacquelynn’s next step solidified the burgeoning love I had for her: she offered to cut and color my hair a few weeks before the wedding to make sure that it was perfect for the updo on the wedding day. Then she armed me with two bottles of Bumble and bumble cream to make sure my hair was nourished and healthy. Realizing I had to look
gorge
at our rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding, I asked her to give me a blowout the evening before the Big Day.

A self-admitted control freak, Jacquelynn liked this idea. “Now I can make sure I know
everything
you have in your hair before I do your updo,” she said. This was important because updos usually wear better with “day-old” hair that hasn’t been washed immediately before styling. Obviously, this can get pretty annoying for stylists when their clients show up on the morning of their weddings with hair full of cheap, sticky gel.

The weekend of my wedding, I looked like a flippin’ hair model. During the happy hour the evening before my nuptials, my hair was a glossy, golden sheet hanging down my back. On the wedding day…my hair was perfection.

I
n the early days of the engagement, I was completely clueless about the world of invitations. Don’t get me wrong; I’d seen
Platinum Weddings
on the WE TV channel and I knew some brides spent their IRA savings on platinum-plated, hand-embroidered invitations that had to be FedExed and weighed five pounds each. But I figured everyone else just went to the nearest FedEx office, ordered a bulk package of card stock, printed out single-sided postcard-sized invitations, slapped a stamp on ’em and called it a day.

Ohhh boy, was I in for a rude awakening.

Even my simple postcard idea, it turned out, could cost more than the couch I scrimped and saved for six months to buy. And don’t even get me started on embossing, letterpressing, calligraphy, vellum and hand-stitching. My mom instilled in me a passion for all things paper-related, and for a girl whose favorite toy growing up was a sample folder from Paper Source, wedding invitations represented a box of candy. A stunning, expensive, delicious box of candy.

Certainly there was the frugal angel sitting on my shoulder, reminding me that most invitations end up in the trash, that nobody can tell the difference between 10 percent and 45 percent rag content, that going into debt over deckle edges and felt finishes was silly. I still agree with that angel, too—nothing in a wedding is worth going into debt over.

However, there was the other angel on my shoulder who reminded me that invitations were my opportunity to set the tone for the wedding. Sending guests a beautiful, thoughtful invitation was the first step in showing my gratitude for their support and willingness to be there for such an important moment in my life. I wanted each guest to know that we would be honored by his or her presence. A poorly thought-out invitation printed on scrap paper obviously wouldn’t cut it.

And then there was the third angel in my life—the one I call Mommy—who had an entirely different idea for me. Still fixated on trying to get me to set my priorities on practicalities, my mother suggested that Dave and I send e-vites for our invitations. Yep. E-vites. When I reminded her that her own parents would probably be challenged, to say the least, by an email wedding invitation, she came up with this: “Well, send nice paper invitations to the old people who don’t know how to use computers, and then e-vites to everyone else.”

Right, Mom.

I knew there was a middle ground, an invitation that was nicer than a spam message mass email but not as extravagant as an engraved sterling silver plaque—but I had no clue what that invitation looked like. I ramped up for yet another slog through the impossible tangle of wedding information on the internet, but eight hours later all I knew was that DIY invitations would take me sixty-seven hours to complete and that the cost of stamps would increase by two cents less than a week after I planned on sending my invitations (meaning I had no room for delays). So, like any smart bride with limited time and a billion things to think about, I decided to pretend I didn’t have to worry about invitations. Smart, huh?

A few weeks later, with my invitation worries carefully quarantined in a part of my brain, I got a phone call. My friend (and eventual bridesmaid) Aubrey was on the other end, and she was about to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse: she had just started a letterpress company called Atlas & Campbell with her colleague, Tracy, and she wanted to
design our invitations for us. The best part? She said her labor was a gift—all we had to pay for was materials.

Now, let’s pause for a minute and have a little reality check. Most newly engaged gals don’t have a close friend who just happened to start a letterpress company. I know that. But you’d be surprised how many connections you have that can help you out as you plan your wedding. That girlfriend who’s an executive assistant? She orders flower arrangements for her office all the time and can hook you up with a local florist who’s willing to give discounts to friends. Your brother who likes to woo the ladies with his emotional acoustic guitar playing? He can perform the musical interlude during your ceremony. Your fiancé’s ex-girlfriend who started her own photography business? Not only can she be your photographer, but she’ll feel so guilty over the way she dumped your man that she’ll give you her services free of charge.

Just kidding about that last one. She’d probably intentionally take photos of you right when you’ve got a double chin.

Well, Aubrey was my clutch wedding connection. For the cost of postage, paper, ink and letterpress plates, Dave and I got one-of-a-kind, custom invitations complete with hand-stitching, vellum bellybands, and the rich texture left by a centuries-old printing machine. Here’s the thing, though: paper is totally expensive. Even with free design labor and a friend who was trying her hardest to find me rock-bottom deals on materials, Dave and I were looking at spending upwards of a thousand bucks on our invitations.

That was 5 percent of our whole wedding budget.

With a heavy heart, I prepared to call Aubrey and tell her that I didn’t think we were going to be able to afford her design services.

Dave saw me pouting as I picked up the phone and asked what was wrong. I burst into tears.

“We can’t even afford PAPER for our wedding invitations! Do you hear me??! PAPER! We’re going to have to send—” I snorfed a bubble of snot back into my nose “—e-viiiiiites!”

Dave looked at me like I had sprouted two heads. Enraged, I tried
to force his understanding. “E-vites!” I screeched. “God! Nobody’s going to come to our wedding because they’ll be so off ended that we sent…we sent…E-VITES!”

Like a practiced diva, I flounced dramatically into the bedroom, flung myself on the bed and commenced an unprintable wailing session.

Dave knew he had to follow me, or else.

Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the bed and patted my shoulder. “It’s okay,” he murmured.

“NO IT’S NOT!!!” I shrieked. “Do you
understand
what this
means?
It means that my mother…was…was…was RIGHT!” This thought brought a new feeling of hopelessness. I curled into a ball and stuffed the corner of my pillow into my mouth. (I’ve found this move to be very effective when you want people to think you’re in need of serious attention and TLC.)

Dave was quiet for a moment.

I sneaked a peek at him from beneath my wet eyelashes. I recognized his expression as the same one he gets when he figures out how to build an IKEA shelf without any instructions—frustrated but enlightened.

I waited for him to speak.

“Actually…” he started slowly “…your mom may have been onto some thing.”

“WHAT?! You can’t be serious.”

I looked at him with the eyes of a crazy person, ready to declare him a traitor who wasn’t fit to be in my presence.

Dave looked thoughtful again. “What if we got people to RSVP online? We could still send the invitations that Aubrey designed, but we can get rid of those little envelope thingies [that’s what he called the RSVP cards] and probably save on a ton of paper. And we’re only inviting, what, seven older relatives who don’t use computers? We can just call them.”

Well, I hadn’t seen
that
coming. But immediately I realized that
my future husband had come up with a great idea. Having a paperless RSVP system could dramatically reduce our costs. And, for karmic brownie points, it was eco-friendly.

I called Aubrey and told her Dave’s idea. She was immediately onboard, and within the hour I had a revised invitation design. On the vellum insert that would be bound to the main body of the invitation, she added the line “Kindly reply by July 1 through our website, wiggsanddave.com.”

The next day, I spent an hour building a form on our website (a search for “website form builder” returned a plethora of easy-to-use tools) that guests could fill out with the number of people in their party, the full names of everyone who would be attending (for place cards) and a little space for a message to us. When they clicked “Submit,” their responses were sent to the email account that I had created especially for the wedding.

Done.

Our paperless RSVP system, combined with some killer deals Aubrey was able to snag from her paper supplier, cut our invitation costs in half. Nobody said a word about the missing RSVP cards. At least, not to my face.

And—What do you know?—my mom’s original e-vite idea, while completely abhorrent to me, ended up being the inspiration for our eco-and wallet-friendly invitations.

Something tells me she wasn’t surprised by that.

INVITATIONS: THE BRIDAL GATEWAY DRUG

All right, I’ll admit it. I couldn’t stop at just one fancy letterpress project. As with Franco Sarto mid-heel pumps, my first purchase merely opened the door for more. But this is where the real value of a dedicated designer comes into play. Aubrey and Tracy knew the exact fonts, styles and colors of our invitations and were able to create a whole wedding suite for us that coordinated with the original theme of our invitations.
When I called Aubrey in a panic ten days before the wedding, freaking out that I hadn’t even started thinking about our wedding programs, she calmly told me she had it covered and created two hundred beautiful eight-page, hand-sewn booklets that featured all the readings from our ceremony, the names of our bridesmaids and groomsmen, directions to the reception venue and the names of our deceased relatives who we wanted to remember on our wedding day.

Then, five days before the wedding, I called Aubrey in hysterics, realizing I had completely forgotten to create place cards. This was a particular tragedy because not only had Dave and I spent hours assigning our guests to tables, we had spent the last nine months working on what I liked to call Project Place Card.

See, there’s nothing I hate more than making small talk. At weddings, there are three questions you can always expect: “Where are you from?” “How do you know the bride or groom?” and “What do you do?” So I decided to save my guests from the hell of inane conversation by printing an interesting conversation starter on each of their place cards. We’d come up with 232 tidbits about our guests, hunting down details about our friends’ dates and children whom we hadn’t met by emailing and calling incessantly. The final list was incredible, and we’d learned more new and amazing things about our guests than we ever could have imagined. For example, my grandmother told me that my eighty-year-old great-uncle started “going with” my great-aunt when he was eleven years old. They were both coming to our wedding. My great-uncle’s place card read, “Ask me about how I met my wife.” For my college roommate who had an unfortunate (but memorable) incident involving a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream and a cell phone dropped in a toilet: “Ask me about flushing my Nokia.” For my milky-skinned, blond friend who is 65 percent Cherokee, “Ask me about my tribe.”

Awesome idea, right?

Feel free to steal it.

Leading up to the wedding, Dave and I scoured our memories for the most interesting details we could find about each of our guests.
When we weren’t as close to some of the invitees, we asked our parents or mutual friends to fill in the blanks. It was a huge undertaking, but ultimately very rewarding.

Unfortunately, until five days before my wedding, I didn’t realize that I actually needed to
create
these incredible place cards that had taken Dave and me months to plan.

Aubrey was all over it. When she arrived in Seattle forty-eight hours before the wedding, she handed me a box of personalized place cards that matched the rest of our wedding stationery perfectly.

Our entire suite of letterpressed wedding awesomeness included:

• Cocktail napkins
  
• Personalized book plates stuck inside the covers of our wedding favors, which were—surprise, surprise—autographed Susan Wiggs novels
  
• Wedding programs
  
• Invitations
  
• Place cards
  
• Thank-you notes
  
• Two different sizes of envelopes
  

I should note, for posterity, that my dear Aubrey added decorative hand-stitching on the invitations, thank-you notes, book plates and wedding programs. Now that’s dedication.