I’ll never be the type of person who arrives at the airport with their liquids already pre packed into a clear bag. Or who has luggage tags. Or a pen to fill out immigration forms. I’ll be wearing comfy clothes that resemble pyjamas and my glasses. I won’t take my shoes off during the flight no matter how long it is. One of my big worries is that if the plane goes down and a Lost -type situation unfolds, if I’m wearing contacts and my luggage isn’t found in the wreckage I’d be blind after 24 hours as my daily lenses dry up in my eyes. The other survivors would be forced to have a conversation about whether to care for my blind ass or whether to kill me and eat me. I reckon I’d taste pretty good. But I’m a survivor. I’ve worn my glasses and didn’t take my shoes off so I’m ready to run.
This is the fourth time I’ve flown back to London in the 5 years we’ve lived in Sydney. Always as a solo traveller as my partner and I have never actually managed to coincide the life events we need to be home for. That’s fine though it gives me 24 hours of uninterrupted TV time. And we are about to spend a year living in a 7 by 1.5 meter space so that’s plenty of quality time. Also she freaks out during take off and landing and it’s pretty embarrassing. (Love you baby).
This time I am flying home for my sisters wedding. Ah marriage, that privilege Australia reserves for straight couples. While I don’t know if marriage is for me I’d sure like to have the option. And of course for all the gay people who do want to.
Anyway in my little – but – big sister’s wedding I have the honour of being a bridesmaid. Chief bridesmaid no less. That is pretty cool as she and I didn’t used to spend that much time together as adults. But by pure coincidence we both ended up moving to Sydney about 5 years ago. Now she’s like my BFF and we have been there for each others ups and downs since. Ahhh.
Our new found friendship means that in a few days time I’ll be wearing a long pink, strapless dress and sparkly silver heels. I’ll have a spray tan and fake eyelashes. That might sound lovely but my usual style is ripped jeans, an oversized t-shirt and some kind of desert boot or plimsoles with holes in the soles and wine stains on the fabric.
My hair has been the source of much controversy. Usually a quiff and an undercut when my sister and I first went into a boutique bridal store in Sydney’s Paddington, the sales girls reaction to learning I was in the wedding party was, “Oh wow, what are you gonna do about your hair?!” Then, “Perhaps you could wear a wig!” She exclaimed, thrilled she had solved the problem of how to disguise the lesbian bridesmaid.
Mother then flew into town. She’s a lovely women and we have so many similarities but my does she speak her mind. “I’m not”. Was not the reply she wanted to hear for her question/ demand of, “When are you going to start growing your hair for your sisters wedding?” That particular conversation ended up with a wine fuelled, drunken row in a lovely restaurant. Mum came round with flowers the next day. And I went to the hairdressers to get my undercut re shaved to a no. 2.
Here we are at the week of the wedding. The undercut is gone and the rest is a lot longer as well. At the end of the day I do want to look and feel good for my sisters big day. And in the photos that will be up on walls for the rest of time. And I couldn’t pull off a no.2 buzz with a pink floor length dress. I just didn’t want to be told that I had to grow my hair out to play my part. I am honoured to be in the wedding and am so excited for my little – but – big sis as it’s going to be an awesome day. Even if the dessert does look like breast implants (her words). I just hope I don’t stack it down the aisle in my high heals. No one would be looking at my hair then.