How Oompa Loompas and Brittney Spears were involved in my wedding.
Before I got married…I knew I wanted two big things for my wedding day.
Both of which I didn’t have.
- I wanted hella long and thick hair.
- And I wanted a beautiful tan.
Now, as a doctor I knew that tanning wasn’t good for me. I USED to be able to get a gorgeous bronze-ness, but as a I grew up…nope, they were just freckles that showed up.
I ended up getting what I’ll call “porn star” extensions that were amazing and down to my butt, but they were heavy as crap, they itched, and I totally understood why Brittney shaved her head.
My Maid of Honor—Melinda– found a lady who did spray tans out of her garage in West Houston. It was an hour drive, but Melinda pleaded, “It’ll be worth it.”
She offered to be the guinea pig to see how it worked about 3 weeks before the wedding.
Spray Lady had Melinda strip down to a paper thong in the empty garage spread eagle to get all of the “crevices.”
Melinda was super excited because Spray lady told her she could spray on a six pack onto her abdomen, as gorgeous as Melinda was—she tended to more of the “keg” look.
Spray lady got out what I swear was a hose and just sprayed the s**t out of Melinda—and it was EVERYWHERE. Melinda almost got knocked over because of the force of the jet, while I stood and watched from the safety of the kitchen door.
Then Spray Lady moved in closer like a firefighter holding a hose on a burning house to “paint on the six pack.” “MORE,” Melinda yelled over the sound of the jet propulsion. “MORE!!!!” She was like an evil scientist.
Spray Lady, panting, mic-dropped that hose when Melinda felt she was “tanned enough.”
When she waddled over to me, her bangs were standing straight up from the force of the jet. Melinda paused. “How do I look?” she grinned—her eyeballs and teeth “Ross-from-Friends” white through the UT shade she now was.
Dear Almighty.
It looked like an OOMPA LOOMPA dye pack had literally exploded onto Melinda.
“Ummmm,” I stalled. “It’s a little darker than I would have thought,” I managed. (and orange, so, so orange)
We got in the car and Melinda was smiling like she won a beauty pageant. I couldn’t look at her because I would either bust up laughing, or worse. She kept looking down at her “six pack” in marvel, but I cringed. You can’t make a six pack out of a keg.
“You know,” I said, scratching my extensions. “We could just save the money on all this stuff and just be ourselves.”
“WHAT?” she cried. “I feel awesome.”
But I didn’t. I didn’t feel authentically me.
I had my hairstylist cut off 8 inches from my extensions. And Melinda went back to the Fairy Godmother to turn into a pumpkin again.
Thankfully, the lighting in the evening wedding was low…very, very low.
Since then, I’ve learned to embrace what I got—freckles, fine thin(ning) hair and just a whole lot of me. I’m not meant to be bronze, or a pumpkin. Oompa Loomps freak me out anyway.
What a relief it is to not feel like I have to go stand nekkid in someone’s garage to be somebody I’m not!
Tweaks here and there? Totally cool. (I do color those grays, after all).
But major changes? I’ll leave those to the Kardashians.
