I thought it’d be a fun, relaxing morning during which we’d laugh and ask D questions about her man. We’d exchange boy stories and page through glamor magazines. We’d do each others’ nails. We’d ooh and ahh over D as her hair and make-up were done.
You see, D got married today, and as attendants of the bride, we were going with her to get ready for the big day.
Five hours later, I realized I was wrong. Horribly wrong. We didn’t go to a pampering beauty parlor. Ladies and gentlemen, I had a personalized tour of the factory today. The finished product? Young brides.
We pulled into this side alley that appeared to be houses and a small neighorhood shop. Then I noticed one building with mirrored windows and a couple of glamor posters. Realizing we had arrived, I quickly remembered that all salons here have one-way mirrors as windows. The customers can see out onto the street, but no one can observe what’s going on inside from outdoors. That would be shameful. A woman’s hair is valued as sensual, and therefore looking at it or watching someone get her hair done is considered intimate - and therefore shameful for men.
We walked in the door and the first thing I noticed was all of the hair on the ground. I was a bit baffled and, to be honest, grossed out because it was only 9 am. I knew they hadn’t had that many customers. I assessed that the sanitary standards were ... low, and then mentally moved on. There was no point dwelling on something that I’d be in the midst of for the next several hours - and something that would probably get worse as the day passed on.
We put our names down on the list and set up camp in a corner. Looking back now I chuckle as I consider the irony of how relaxed and confident I was at that point of the day. Besides a couple of other women, we had the place to ourselves and plenty of time. I privately wondered why we could possibly need 5 hours to get ready...
D walked over and sat down in one of “the” chairs to get worked on. The first step was to have all of her hair - save for her eyebrows and lashes - removed from her face. This is done with a thread. I’m still fascinated by this and would’ve loved to get a picture, but Mary (D's sister) scoffed at my request and quickly put that wish to death. Judging from the looks and grunts of agony that were coming from the victims of the thread, I think this is one tradition I’m happy to refrain from participating in.
Before too long other young brides [and entourages] made their entrances with various bags, containers, and children varying in sizes. The most important belonging, I learned, was a large red plastic bag that said “Orient Night” and had some Arabic writing on it. This bag - the same bag for each bride - held the wedding dress and accessories. It amazed me that each girl had the same bag.
Within an hour or so of arriving, there were nine other brides waiting to be plucked and pampered for their men. We fit between sixty and seventy people into a room that was roughly 70 square feet. Can someone say estrogen circus?
I sat, in awe of this process, and I assessed that each bride would go through the same steps, using the same tools, displaying the same colors, and would be picked up by her fiance looking much like the other brides. Each would be plucked and pruned. Sewn into her wedding dress. Layered with make-up and adorned with jewels. Crowned with a huge up-do and a fluffy lace veil.
Brides - in mass production.
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