One thing you might not know, if you haven’t been in a wedding party recently or just aren’t all that cognizant of “wedding culture” more broadly (for which I wouldn’t blame you), is that the “getting ready” part of the day has taken on an almost mythical role in the overall story of the event. I follow wedding blogs sporadically, and it’s not at all uncommon to see photos of a bride holed up in a hotel suite or sunny bedroom somewhere with her bridesmaid posse, all of them dressed in matching robes, giggling and chattering away as a hairstylist and makeup artist work their way around the room leaving conventionalized beauty in their wake.
I participated in a wedding like this a few years ago, and despite the fact that my ex from high school was also in the bridal party (awkward), somehow the getting-ready ritual made everything feel smoothed-over, at least for the moment. We were supplied with the requisite matching robes (turquoise, monogrammed); we blasted the radio and bopped along. A hyper-focused and hyper-competent woman with big hair glued individual fake lashes to my eyes and spackled foundation over my imperfections. Everyone was in the type of good mood you can only really get into when you’re on vacation or taking time off work or eating/drinking/living on someone else’s dime for the day. Our disagreements were set aside, and our glasses were rose-tinted and half-full.
It was, comparatively, an odd experience getting ready for my own wedding during a pandemic. There could be no hotel rooms, or cavalcades of bridesmaids, or strangers wielding powder puffs and barrel brushes. My spouse-to-be was not suiting up in a suite down the hall, but rather, in the other room (I made them promise not to peek until my whole look was complete). There was chill music playing on the stereo, selected by Siri, and I sat in front of a mirror in the entrance hall of my love’s apartment, surrounded by swirling tulle and a million eyeshadows. I felt relaxed, not nervous – and focused, not ebullient. It was game time.
I had worried it might make me sad to eschew what felt like an important tradition of femininity in favor of a safer and more solitary process. But truth be told, it took me right back to the days in my early twenties when I would regularly spend an hour in front of the mirror in my attic bedroom at my parents’ house, getting ready for a party or a club night or an orgy. I would listen to Usher or Death Cab or whatever was cool back then, and apply glitter to my eyelids like a prophecy. I would trace my lips with sticky pink gloss like casting a kiss-summoning spell. I would comb and slick my hair into ridiculous shapes like a slutty femme peacock.