My students know little of what I write here, but one perceptive male said to me in school, “Mrs. D., your life is a lot like the woman on ‘I Love Lucy.'” Point taken. I choose to call the escapades I live “colorful,” sometimes enjoyable and other times not so much. I’ve often been told that my wedding was quite memorable – few know just how memorable. The beginning of my day was a disaster but the remainder was a dream.
I had gone to the same hair stylist for years, Jessica, with flawless results. We both decided that the heat of a June day in a cavernous church without air conditioning would make me wilt instantly. She was an artist. When I put my hair in her hands, I became a combination of Jaclyn Smith and Penelope Cruz (and the check is in the mail). She suggested pulling my tresses back and away, as my face and $1,200 veil would be highlighted (you read that correctly – in no way am I wealthy but my family encouraged me to indulge myself; the silk tulle of the veil was my lengthy train, with hand-sewn seed pearls around the plentiful fabric).
Perhaps Jess had partied too long the night before. Perhaps she was related to “Edward Scissorhands.” Or maybe she had hated me all along and decided this was the ideal time for revenge. When she finished, my hair resembled Holly Hunter’s in “The Piano,” only worse. It was so severe that it appeared that I had put a stocking over my face, distorted my features by stretching my eyes to my ears, and was on my way to rob a bank or convenience store. I had waited until the day before the ceremony to try for this – now what?
My mother’s stylist, Sue, was gracious enough to come to our home on my wedding day and start over. My auburn locks were finally arranged in a lovely upswept, feminine manner. Once my mom and I were “hair happy,” our photographer came to the door. My husband and I had hired him specifically at an obscene price, as we had seen his work. Our students’ senior pictures made each and every one of them a star. But the man opted for another gig without telling us. He sent his cousin instead with a camera. I don’t believe Lou ever used a camera before. Moreover, he was so miserable that his face dragged on the carpeting, raising the nap and sweeping the kitchen floor (I would be more than happy to give you the number for housekeeping.) One photo with my mother was exceptional, if you ignored the huge, vivid fuchsia roller still visibly tucked at the side of my head. I asked him to take another sans the curler. Answer? “No way. I have to get to the church.” I found my voice rising as I said, “No, I have get to the church – it’s my wedding and I am the bride!” He left anyway.
My husband’s brother phoned afterward and said, “Oh, is the ‘Just Married’ sign you want for today? Oh, man, I didn’t get around to it.” He had had a year. I cursed him with every Italian word Ron had taught me but probably called him a pasta dish or pastry!
Enter my maid of honor, my best friend since college, a generous, selfless woman. She was in a tizzy. She didn’t rinse all of the conditioner from her hair and thus decided to shower – with the bathroom door locked for nearly two hours! I washed my face at the kitchen sink. I decided to try something which always left me glowing. After cleansing, I put several ice cubes in a washcloth to shrink my pores and keep me radiant.
The matron of honor, my sister, arrived screaming, “I lost the wedding music!” She was our organist and one of those who was to sing. In the hunt to recover it, I held the cloth to my face too long. As it dried, the skin was irritated and parched. I had it all over Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I could guide a cruise ship through cloudy Christmas Eve skies. My mom gave me something to help, but the burn was hard to hide and a major “ouch.” Thank God for Batman-strength concealer, but I would have done better with painter’s spackle.
If I had had Alofe African Cape Aloe “Age Defying Night Cream,” the scenario would have changed greatly for the better. This is a product of dreams. This particular kind of aloe is indigenous only to the area mentioned, and thus it grows wild without chemicals and pesticides. For over a thousand years, native tribes recognized the multiple benefits and used it in its raw form. Alofe, where were you when I needed you?
The night cream has a whipped texture I love and the scent – oh, the scent! It is so subtly perfumed that I cannot liken it to anything else, but it glides on and easily permeates your skin with an immediate silken feel. Irritation disappears along with the accompanying discoloration. My favorite attribute is that this treasure can be used for all ages and all skin types, oily or dry. Thus, you young, gorgeous Megheads with plump, line-free skin who may not moisturize, no more excuses. I’m saying this because I love you – and beware, as the Meghead police do know where you live. They are particularly brutal with those who skip moisturizing.
It does not promise to make wrinkles disappear in two minutes, but the aloe and tested ingredients do so by hydrating and rejuvenating, restoring your skin’s natural pH. You are left with a fresh, dewy look; skin is refined and polished. I would be glad to try their serum to be worn under this. Actually, their entire collection is intriguing.
Interestingly, my cheeks have a lovely, slight pink aura after use. It’s not an allergic reaction, but perhaps a way my body thanks me for using it. Or I must still be an ecstatic “blushing bride” after all of these years!
Do you ladies like Aloe products?
Have you ever used the Alofe line with African Cape Aloe?