An Orwellian Era, as directed by John Hughes

My problem isn't so much Big Brother as it's Little Sister. The "bride" is a total bitch, as of late. At her request, I spent three hours looking for bridesmaid jewelry "without too many rhinestones." Um, how about none, for christ's sake? It's gaudy, never mind the fact that if you're going to have non-diamond "bling," it should be crystals because rhinestones photograph black. I'm the wedding veteran. She's been in one wedding. This will be my fifth. I'd like to wear it again, not take down airplanes on a sunny day or use it to signal my way out of a forest.

Any-hoo, she broke the already uneasy peace by suggesting I do my own hair for the big day. The only capable stylist in the town of 2000 would be focusing on her and the mothers of the bride and one other bridesmaid. Not me, apparently. I'm not lucky enough to get the coveted spot. That would have been a nice birthday gift. Guess I'll have to settle for a reenactment of 16 Candles.

Because I'm the mature one, I promptly called my mother. As an aside, she was furtively smoking outside the mall, hoping to avoid seeing HER sister. My mom is 54 and her parents are dead, so I'm not entirely sure of the reason behind this. My mother, because she hates me, helpfully suggested that my sister was right. She then told me my hair was short, so it didn't matter. They'd clearly discussed this issue already. Drat, foiled again. I tried to reach a compromise that would make no one happy: if my mom invited HER shitty sister to the wedding, I'd do my own hair for MY shitty sister's wedding. No deal.

With no option other than to stir the pot, I requested, via e-mail, that I be allowed to opt out of the rehearsal dinner so my stylist could do my hair and I wouldn't have to travel back and forth from the Magic City two days in a row. Bridezilla scolded me, denied that she ever suggested I do my own hair, and then said that, if I were to do my own hair, it would be fine because it's short. Now I'm sensing a conspiracy. Also, if I want to get my hair done, that's my decision and there are plenty of decent stylists in the town of 2000 people, available for one person at 8 a.m. on a Saturday. Way to later deny, in writing, what you said earlier, in writing. It's now very clear why I'm the lawyer and she's the CPA. I can't balance my checkbook but I can cover my tracks and recognoze when I've boxed myself in.

So, this is what's going to happen. I'm going to be stuck with Debbie from the Hair Cut. Euphemistically speaking, of course. You know Debbie: the 40-year-old bleach blonde in the small shop on main street with acrylic nails and a big mouth that gives at least four perms a week and allows her male clients to keep their mullets. She'll insist on "trimming" my hair while styling it, use a 2" barrel curling iron on my 1.5" hair, burn my scalp when the hair slips out, rip out my cartilage piercing, and pollute the environment and my eyes and mouth with at least two cans of Paul Mitchell Maximum Hold aerosol hairspray. I will then be charged $10 (she won't charge for the cut, she'll say graciously), tip her an additional $5, walk out the door sporting a short brown helmet and cry in the street. Why? Because there aren't parking lots in this town.

Then, in an eerily calm moment, I'll imagine myself shutting off my mobile, filling up with enough gas and diet coke to get me to the state line, and driving south for forever (also known as Kansas). It'd be like The Awakening. Without the suicidal undertones. The moment will pass, I'll crank up the ABBA, light a cigarette, and think of the singing WB frog and other things that are on the ALWAYS FUNNY list (including Collin kicking his shoe into the gutter in St. Louis trying to get a rock out of the sole - I'm laughing as I write this). I will focus my energy on my father's directive for the day, which has been previously conveyed to me as "suck it up." He'll be doing the same.

Later, whenever one of the 700 guests (not even kidding) makes awkward conversation about how great my hair looks, I'll die a little inside. Why do I think they'll comment about my hair? Because my helmet will be so obviously hideous when we bump into one another after the gin prevents me from avoiding eye contact quickly enough and they'll feel compelled to say something about it.

I really might slap the shit out of my sister. And Debbie. I'd much rather spend my 29th birthday in the clink than at the reception.

Stay tuned, the wedding may be broadcast on COPS. I'll be the one in the brown helmet. And the rhinestone neclace. And the handcuffs. With a satisfied look on my face.