Sunday, 31 October 2004 | Halloween costume

"We have to do something about Lisa's hair."

I'm sitting on an airplane in Charleston, South Carolina, waiting for take-off. I'm nervous, but not because I'm worried about crashing or terrorists or sitting in the emergency exit row (I'm oddly comforted that I'd more likely die than be expected to play hero). I'm nervous that I might unknowingly do something socially improper. It's a feeling I can't seem to shed, even though I no longer need it. It's coating me like a fresh suntan.

...

Scott's sister's wedding was organized (and attended) by elite Southern socialites, and took place on a plantation right by the Ashley River, in the shadow of an elaborate white columned house with hearty drapes. I'd gone to keep Scott company, take pictures, and shoot super 8 and video of the ceremony. The "videographer," they called me.

...

A week ago I got my bangs trimmed with the wedding in mind, and I consciously delayed changing my hair color, as it's currently my natural (and acceptable) light brown. I packed my most conservative clothing, and I scrubbed the black chipped polish off my fingers. Unfortunately, my most refined dress shoes are made of plastic and glitter, but Scott thought ahead and brought me some borrowed shoes from LA, some dark brown pumps with a fake snakeskin sheen. (At the wedding, two people would compliment my choice of footwear, the only part of the costume that wasn't mine.)

...

I spent time with the bridesmaids and their husbands, all of whom were friendly and (not surprisingly) polite. They all seemed to have grown-up sounding jobs (titles with "real estate" and "consultant" in them) and they looked older than they were (26). Rather than talking about themselves in any regard (their feelings or neuroses or aggravations, like my friends tend to do), they turned the conversation outward, and talked about other people.

...

I could tell Scott and his mother were discussing me (hushed voices) when I came down the stairs. It was my hair, they told me. She told me that it looked best down, and I should wear it that way for the ceremony, and that I should tuck "that part" behind my ears, referring to the remains of my faded streaks. I stood there dumbly, confused that, as the videographer, I'd just been told how to wear my hair by a person I'd met a day earlier (something my own parents have never even dared to do). I nodded, suddenly realizing that my concept of an appropriate appearance was way off. (From that point on, even long after the wedding, I would panic when I'd see her if my hair was anything but down. Actually, I would silently panic about everything, certain that I was doing something offensive.)

As I messed with my hair, I decided to try pinning back the sides with silver clips that were sure to pass the test, and I applied a little more make-up than usual (which meant employing an old stump of black eyeliner that I'd discovered in the bottom of my bag). Scott presented me to one of the bridesmaids (who was wearing an updo and a face full of powder) to see if she could help me even further. The first thing she did was reach for my hair clips. "We need to take these out," she said, with a nurturing and soft Southern twang. "Is that okay?" she said as her hand reached toward my hair.

She led me down to the room where the other girls had gotten ready, and began dusting me with make-up. She poofed up my hair (this is the only thing I didn't allow) and asked for my approval before holding an aerosol can to my head. It smelled like flowers. I thanked her (I meant it), and retreated upstairs to remove my jelly bracelets.

Even so, as the guests arrived for the wedding, I attracted stares not unlike the stares I got in Mexico. I didn't fool them.

...

The ceremony was classy (of course), and pretty. I quietly made the rounds with my various cameras, the heels of my shoes sinking into the grass. After the service, I subsisted on wine and carrots and spoke (carefully) to the guests. I think I made only one major mistake, one that the bride's mother has yet to discover: I ran out of film in the super 8 camera seconds before the bride and groom kissed. I think I gasped and I know I scrambled to change the tape, but it was too late. They are going to hate me, but they don't know it yet.

...

The matriarch of the family—the grandmother—struck fear in the hearts of her own family. I'm not sure how she would respond if someone made a faux pas (perhaps she breathed fire?), because no one ever did. Except for maybe Scott. He picked her up in his car right after flying the red-eye from LA., and, although he was wearing a dress shirt, she told him he looked "rumpled and gay."

(This morning she commented that the wedding, while beautiful, was rather informal. I honestly can't conceive how it could've been any more formal—cocktail dresses at breakfast? I ended up sleeping in my dress last night—do I get points for that?)

I did have fun, however. And it was probably good for me to be reminded of life elsewhere.

Scott's mother approved of me, it turns out. She told me I looked pretty at the wedding and that I was nicely unobtrusive (though not in those words). "This is probably something of a culture shock for you," she wisely noted. "Well, it's not Brooklyn..." I replied. Timidly.