Mirror, Mirror Off the Wall Page 21

  “Ugh! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I asked.

  “I tried to! I asked you if you felt comfortable and whether you could move around. Sorry, but I think this one is on you,” she said.

  She was right. It was time to wave a little white flag of defeat. As I hurried upstairs to change into one of my other dresses, I felt relieved, but also terribly embarrassed. I’d wanted to look elegant and fashionable when I met all of the Ackermann clan, not as though I’d stubbornly (or moronically, or tackily, or—egads!—whorishly) stuffed myself into a too-small dress. As I slipped dress number two over my head, I tried to remind myself that “people who matter don’t mind, and people who mind don’t matter.” I knew that this was true, but I still felt bad about possibly giving off the wrong first impression to Michael’s family and their friends.

  Twenty minutes later, I was feeling much better. After suffering from the constriction of my too-little white dress, I’d opted for the strapless number I probably should have chosen in the first place: no straps, no lining, no constriction, and heck, no bra (much less one that threatened to jump out from the dress each time I gesticulated or went in for a hug).

  But I still had a bone to pick with Michael. I found him on the dance floor doing some version of “the sprinkler” with his dad. I cut in for a dance, which gave us the opportunity to chat.

  “Why did you say I looked great when my dress didn’t fit?!” I demanded. “It was really important to me that I look nice for this party, and apparently my dress was too small!”

  Michael looked sheepish. “I didn’t really notice that it was too small. I mean, I saw it the first time you tried it on, and it looked good then. But tonight I was mostly looking at your boobs,” he admitted, a bit guiltily. I rolled my eyes as he led me into a spin. Oh well, at least he hadn’t minded!

  But how had this happened in the first place? The answer—and its lesson—was clear: I’d gone against my commitment to “practice trust” and paid the price. Instead of listening to my mom, who had suggested that I make sure I felt comfortable in my dress and could move around easily, I’d put my own opinion first and made a mistake. Sure, the repercussions hadn’t been fatal (indeed, the fact that the Ackermanns’ guests hadn’t seemed to notice gave support to my mantra about those who matter not minding . . .), and to be honest I may have made the exact same decision if I’d been able to see myself in a mirror that night, but this was a solid reminder to accept help when offered and to listen to people worthy of my trust.

  • • •

  THANKS TO MY RECEPTION DRESS FIASCO, I KNEW WITH CERTAINTY that Wedding Dress #4 was the right choice for my wedding day. To clarify, I’d already committed to wearing it back when my mom had bought it for me, but a small part of me had still been drawn to Dress #1. That part of me had changed its mind. The prospect of having some kind of wardrobe malfunction, or not being able to comfortably sit down at my wedding, was a deal breaker. I shoved Dress #1 into the back of my closet and felt relieved that I’d taken my mother’s advice.

  My first dress fitting was scheduled for the Wednesday after I got back to L.A. I was determined to move back to San Francisco by the end of the following weekend, which meant that I needed to find a seamstress who could complete the alterations on my wedding dress quickly, and hopefully cheaply. Waiting to get it altered in San Francisco would be cutting it too close, even for me. Besides, with a bustling garment district in L.A., I figured I’d have a better chance at finding a seamstress or tailor who could work within my budgetary and timing constraints.

  After scoping out different seamstress and tailoring options online, I’d landed on what seemed to be the right mix of positive reviews alongside claims of reasonable prices and fast turnover. Several of my friends had spent well over $500 simply on the tailoring of their wedding dresses, and I didn’t want things to get out of hand. All I wanted was a simple bustle so I could walk around without the train dragging behind me, and—if possible—for the currently straight-across neckline of my strapless dress to be converted to a sweetheart. Even though the dress was a bit long, I would save at least a few hundred bucks simply by wearing extra-high-heeled shoes; I’d found a great pair of nude patent-leather wedge platform shoes for thirty bucks at T.J.Maxx. I brought these with me to my dress fitting to make sure the seamstress didn’t insist on bringing up the hem.

  I’d asked my friend Lisa to accompany me to my fitting and act as my eyes for the occasion. As I mentioned earlier, aside from Hanna, Lisa is probably my most fuss-free and practical friend. Raised in a small town in Wisconsin, Lisa had a love for cheese, an easy smile, and rarely wore makeup. I knew that when it came to wedding dress alterations, she would be wholly unimpressed by unnecessary fanciness. Therefore, I trusted her to let me know once I’d reached my good-enough-is-good-enough standard.

  I also wanted a friend with me for moral support, in case my wedding dress ended up being too tight. According to the scale I had at home, my weight had been mostly stable since mid-April, but the too-little white dress incident had really thrown me for a loop. I told myself that it would be okay no matter what as I carefully loaded my dress into my car on the way to Lisa’s apartment. But I didn’t know how I would react if my wedding dress refused to zip up mere weeks before my wedding.

  Lisa climbed into my car and we drove to the seamstress’s storefront, which happened to be only a few blocks from her apartment. We parked and walked into a bit of chaos. The front area of the seamstress’s shop was probably smaller than my bedroom, and filled with bolts of fabric, several half-dressed dress forms, and at least three sewing machines, one that looked to be at least a century old. Posters of Marilyn Monroe decorated the walls, and a portable three-piece screen divided a small changing area from the main room. A huge mirror leaned against the nearest wall. I peered at it from an angle, wondering how many other brides-to-be had passed through its view.

  After peering around the screen and not seeing anyone, I called out, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  We heard the frantic yipping of what sounded like a pack of small dogs as a woman emerged from a door in the back of the room. She was a petite and busty brunette with tanned skin, dramatic coal-rimmed eyes, and indiscernibly ethnic features.

  “Hi! I’m Jenny! Are you Kristen?” she asked, speaking so quickly that I almost didn’t understand her.

  “Yep, that’s me! Actually, it’s pronounced Keeeeerstin,” I responded, reminding her, “I’m the bride that can’t look into the mirror.”

  “Yes yes yes! That’s right! And you need the alterations done real quick, right?” she asked energetically.

  I nodded, then asked where I should go to try on my dress. “Do you have anything we can cover the mirror with?” I asked.

  “Oh, you can just get changed out here!” Jenny suggested.

  “Right here in front of the store windows?” I asked, confused. The sidewalk was bustling, and I didn’t want the passersby to become lookers-in.

  “Oh, sorry! We can move the screen so nobody can see you,” Jenny explained, reaching for the screen. It was at least three times her size, so Lisa stepped in to help out before it slipped and crushed her.

  I asked Jenny if she had a bathroom where I could wash my hands before handling my wedding dress. I’d heard nightmare stories of women unknowingly smudging their dresses with dingy handprints during the alterations process.

  “Actually I have a litter of Pomeranian puppies in my bathroom, and they aren’t exactly house-trained yet. There’s poop all over the floor!” she explained with a high-pitched laugh. Lisa and I shared an eyebrows-raised look with each other as Jenny continued. “Puppies! They’re adorable!” she squealed. Perhaps noting our wariness, she explained, “I wanted my kids to witness the miracle of life! You know how it is.”

  Actually, I didn’t know. And frankly, I didn’t want to find out. Puppy poop and wedding dresses didn’t sound like a g
ood combo. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

  I had a travel pack of wet wipes in my purse, which I hoped would do the trick. I handed the pack to Lisa, who raised her eyebrows at me in a “What the hell is up with this lady?” look. We were dealing with quite a character, to say the least.

  Once the screen was up, blocking the windows, I began undressing while Lisa took my dress out of its garment bag. I slipped into my giant platform wedges and said a little prayer of hope that the dress would fit. Lisa gathered all of the layers together to slip the dress over my head while I covered my face with my hands to avoid getting any makeup on the fabric. I took a deep breath, let it all out, and held the dress up under my armpits while Lisa started to zip.

  The dress zipped easily. Sweet relief.

  “Okay, so what are we doing here?” Jenny asked. “The hem is good, and it fits you perfectly around your waist and bust. What do you need me for?!” she joked.

  I explained the bustle and neckline I was hoping for, and Jenny nodded her head.

  “I can get this done in a day or two, no problem!” she promised. The total bill would be under a hundred dollars. Despite my concerns about Jenny’s state of mind, I knew I had no choice but to trust that everything would work out.

  I dropped Lisa off with a hug of thanks, and then had to rush off to my next appointment.

  I was going to get eyelash extensions.

  Yes, you read that correctly: eyelash extensions.

  Eyelash extensions were all the rage in L.A. at the time, according to my students. And I’d recently stumbled upon an online coupon giving a steep discount to first-time clients at a “lash bar” a few blocks from my apartment. Since I still had a habit of walking out of the door with waterproof mascara on my nose, the possibility of not needing mascara for the next two or three weeks was tantalizing. For thirty-five bucks, I’d have gorgeous, low-maintenance eyelashes for both my wedding and my honeymoon. I was excited, but also nagged by the fact that this was more of a want than a need. But maybe it wasn’t so bad. After all, the only reason I was doing something so high-maintenance now was so that I could be low-maintenance later. That kind of canceled things out, right? Besides, the coupon wasn’t refundable. Maybe I’ll keep this decision to myself, I thought. Eyelash extensions probably won’t even be noticeable, since people are already used to seeing me wearing mascara.

  These second thoughts came to me as I sat in the small waiting room of what appeared to be a hair salon that had closed for the evening. Apparently the “lash bar” was just an after-hours thing.

  Just as I was about to chicken out and write off the thirty-five dollars I’d spent as the price I’d paid for a moment of weakness, a door opened and out walked . . . Bambi. Well, obviously the client leaving the room wasn’t actually a cartoon baby deer, but her eyelashes were gorgeous! Thick, long, dark, and yet somehow natural-looking. Ooooh! This was going to be awesome!

  The lash aesthetician (lashthetician?) called me in. She looked to be a natural blonde, and yet, like her previous client, she had amazingly gorgeous, thick, dark lashes. I explained that I was getting married in two weeks and wanted to give my lashes a boost. After describing my whole no-mirrors project thing, the lash lady promised to be careful and said, “Oh, well then this will be especially perfect for you! When I’m done with your lashes, you won’t need any eye makeup at all, not even on your wedding day!”

  That sounded great to me!

  I was told to lie down on the lash lady’s table and warned that I would need to keep my eyes closed for almost a half hour. The woman taped some kind of lower-eyelash patch onto my face, which covered my lower lashes to the root. “We don’t want to glue your eyes shut!” she explained. My eyes immediately began to water.

  The patches were positioned to cover every bit of my lower lashes, which meant that they were seriously close to my eyeballs. Even with my eyes closed tightly, it felt a little ticklish. Tears began running down the outsides of my face. I wanted so badly to rub, or at least wipe, my eyes, but I forced myself to lie still as the woman got to work. Just a few more minutes, I imagined.

  Just then, I heard a doorbell ring. “Oh, that’s my other client! Be right back.” I was alone for about five minutes, but then heard footsteps coming into the room. I couldn’t help myself and removed the lower lash patches for some relief.

  “Hey Kjerstin, my other client can’t wait very long, so I’m going to do you both at the same time, okay?” It wasn’t so much a question as an announcement. I gritted my teeth in annoyance, but responded positively. “Oh, it’s okay. I understand!” I was at this woman’s mercy and couldn’t afford to be difficult. She placed the patches back on my face and got back to work. I could hear her wheeled chair rolling across the wood floor as she shifted between her other client and me. Trust. Trust. Trust, I chanted inside of my head. It seemed like forever before she was done.

  “Ta-da!” shrieked the lash lady almost forty-five minutes later. I felt the lower-lash patches being untaped from my face and winced as I felt a few of my lower lashes being pulled out along with them. I opened my eyes and raised my hand to give everything a good feel.

  “How long are they? I can feel them touch my eyebrows!” I said, alarmed. It didn’t feel like just a “boost.”

  “Well, they’re kind of dramatic, but it’s for your wedding!” the lash lady explained.

  I must have looked nervous, because she quickly promised to “trim them a bit.”

  I lay back down and closed my eyes. As I listened to the lash lady snip, snip, snip away, it was all I could do to stay completely still and pray that my eyebrows weren’t being sacrificed. When she was done, I opened my eyes and noted with relief that my eyelashes were no longer tickling my brows.

  “There you go. Perfect!” exclaimed the lash lady. I thanked her, wearily and warily.

  On my walk to the car, I put my glasses back on and realized that, despite being trimmed, my lashes were still long enough to hit my spectacles when I blinked. I pulled my glasses a bit lower on my nose and drove home.

  “Who does crazy shit like this two weeks before their wedding when they can’t even look at what they’ve done?!” I muttered to myself. It was past dark, and I needed dinner and sleep. I’d overanalyze myself tomorrow.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY I MET WITH ABBY FOR MY WEEKLY DISSERTATION status-update meeting. I was feeling pretty good about it. In the past several months I’d completed several interviews and knew that I had an interesting paper to write for my first chapter. We caught up for a few minutes and then began to discuss my dissertation plans. I’d just finished explaining what I thought was a pretty sharp idea for my first dissertation chapter when Abby interrupted me.

  “I’m so sorry, but . . . ah . . . are you wearing fake eyelashes?” she asked. I cringed.

  “Oh no, are they that obvious?” I asked. “I thought my glasses would kind of hide them.”

  “Not really . . . They’re kind of, like, wow!” she said, blinking her hands open for effect. Apparently my eyelashes resembled the fingers on jazz hands.

  “Oh, this is really embarrassing,” I said, truly embarrassed. I attempted a weak explanation: “I found this coupon online for eyelash extensions, and I thought it would be a way to not worry about wearing mascara over the next few weeks . . .”

  “Well, you definitely don’t need to wear mascara, that’s for sure!” Abby joked. I felt my academic credibility dwindling with every spidery blink. Clearly my “lash look” was more Tammy Faye than Bambi.

  Once I was home that night I wanted desperately—more desperately than I’d ever felt since the start of my project—to dig out my old magnifying mirror from the back of my closet so I could go to town with a nice long and obsessive stare. I resisted, screaming on the inside. Instead, I found myself morphing back to my scab-picking, nail-biting, ten-year-old self. Warnings from the lashtheti
cian be damned, I couldn’t keep my hands away from my eyelashes, and I didn’t care.

  I picked and tugged for hours while I watched TV. Lash by lash, my fingers searched relentlessly for little bits of glue and any uncovered faux-lash roots. It was soothing and satisfying, as most OCD/trichotillomanic quirks are, at least in the moment. I banished my usual “Stop this, you’re a freak!” thoughts and just went with it. The rest of the world faded away, as I thought about nothing other than my determination to remove each and every lash, one by one. It was a low moment. Sure, I wasn’t obsessively counting calories or berating myself for not going to the gym, but compulsive behaviors like this show up only when I’m under a lot of stress and not coping well; I couldn’t have stopped if I’d wanted to.

  By the time Benson and Stabler had thrown the bad guys in jail for the third or fourth time, I was done. A pile of spidery lashes lay in my lap, and when I ran my fingers along the lengths of my lids, I no longer felt anything foreign. I didn’t feel much at all, actually. Along with all of the faux lashes, I’d pulled out the majority of my own natural ones. My eyes were almost completely lashless. This is not good, I thought, still fighting the urge to pull out all the natural lashes that remained. I didn’t trust myself to resist, so I took a sleeping pill and went to bed. If there was beauty in this breakdown, I hadn’t yet found it.

  • • •

  THE NEXT DAY I AWOKE WITH A MAJOR “WHO THE FUCK cares?” attitude. Finally. Paying money to have a perfect stranger glue fake lashes onto my face had been a stupid idea from the start, and if I’d trusted my instincts or paused for a minute to ponder, “What would Gloria Steinem do?” I never would have considered it. Compulsively pulling out most of my lashes hadn’t been the most productive coping mechanism, but it had done at least one thing: It had pushed me to an edge, and then I’d fallen off of it. I was too exhausted and defeated to care about looking perfect on my wedding day. I was over it. SO FUCKING OVER IT.