This One's For Joan

, a photo by Life As We Blog It on Flickr.

The other weekend, Matty was the best man in a lifelong friend's wedding. Over the past few years, I've gotten to know the couple well; they are nicely paired so I was really looking forward to this event, despite having to seek out a formal dress that would fit my post-preggo body.

My friend Connie helped me out there; luckily, she had a to die for Nicole Miller that had just enough stretch in it to fit my heavily Spanxed bod. Dress taken care of, I turned to another friend to help me with my hair.

The morning of the wedding, I left Central PA and The Cheeks behind and drove back to Hoboken to prepare. I arrived back at my flat mid- afternoon, just as the ceremony was taking place in Hackensack, which meant that I had loads of time before the reception to make myself presentable.

You see, this was a big Jersey wedding at a fancy-shmancy reception hall and I wanted to look like I belonged there so of course, I pulled out my wedding hair extensions, hopped on my Huffy and pedaled over to 333 River where my friend Sarah (a very hot, English air hostess for Virgin Atlantic who once spent a weekend on Richard Branson's boat) was waiting to work her magic.

And she did. This is a pic of her handiwork; she did an amazing job twisting up all of the little bits of my short hair, securing them, and hiding them underneath the extensions so my long locks looked au naturale!

She just shook her head when I picked up my bike basket and left her place to hop back on my bike but I wasn't worried: I covered the extensions hanging down my back with my sweatshirt and pulled the hood tight around my neck to keep the top in place.

I was about to head home when I remembered an important detail: my borrowed shoes were open toe and I hadn't had a pedi since, well, before The Cheeks was born. Ugh. Luckily, I still had 3 hours before I was to meet Matty at the reception so I made my way to the nail salon and settled in for some treatments.

Along with the pedi, I was in desperate need of an eyebrow wax so I crawled onto the table where as she was slathering me with wax the, um, bold technician made this statement "ugh, you need upper lip waxed. You hairy".

Really? Did she just say that, because I've never had my lip waxed and had no clue that I was masquerading as the mustached woman. Needless to say, I was a bit taken back by this comment and, well, my body unfortunately started a bit.

I say unfortunately because while my body jerked up a tad from the table, her body was firmly pressed against it.

And against my extensions.

I won't state the obvious but I will say that I wasn't too stressed out at that point, I mean, how hard would it be to go home and re-attach a few extensions? After all, only two ripped out and there must have been 20 bound to my head.

(damn technician! I will say that she got her just desserts when I sat down to a pedicure with legs that hadn't been shaved since, well, um, when did I have the baby...)

I got back to Headquarters with 2 hours until go time and still wasn't stressed so I entered the bathroom and began what I thought was going to be a 15 minute fix. And from there, well, let's just say everything unraveled: my hair, the time, and my entire demeanor.

2.5 hours later, I was still in front of the mirror FREAKING OUT. My hair was an absolute terror, as I hadn't realized that when she ripped out the extensions, she had unraveled some of the short pieces Sarah had pinned up and therefore I had these weird, kinky bits that I couldn't manage. At that point, I had thought that if I took out all bobby pins and pulled everything into a ponytail, I might pull off a chic Academy Awards do.

Ha! Not. Even. Close.

Finally, I had to stop. It was only getting worse and I was now 45 minutes late and missing the entire cocktail hour which everyone knows in Jersey, is the BEST part of a wedding.

With no makeup and no time to find my evening bag, I barely managed to slip into the dress, pull out Aunt Babe's raccoon fur, grab my keys and get on the road.

En route, I sent (while stopped at a red light - not while driving) an SOS text to my friend Johnna who was at the wedding, told her I was in dire need and begged her to meet me in the ladies upon my arrival. After a few GPS miscalculations, I finally rolled up to the valet and parked underneath the five Hollywood style spotlights. By that time, I was approaching full blown panic attack mode. What were these lights? Was I at the wrong venue? Was the paparazzi here? Was someone going to snap a pic of this hot mess the minute I exited the car?

Once in the ladies lounge, I sat down and tried to do some damage control while I waited for Johnna. That's when the lovely attendant noticed me and came over.

"What is going on here, sistah?" She tisked tisked me in her lovely Caribbean accent and then answered her own question, "Ah, don't worry love, I have a weave, too," she declared, "just sit down and relax, relax and I'll take care of you."

Now, I remember the last time someone told me to "relax, relax" and his name was Jason and I think I punched him in the face for patronizing me but this time, the words soothed my tired soul and I melted into the chair.

A few moments, bobby pins, hair bands, sprays of gel and words of encouragement from Johnna later, I looked gorgeous but nothing like this picture and was able to make it to the bar and grab a martini - just before happy hour ended and my husband got up to give his speech.

All's well that ends well, I suppose, however I learned a major lesson for the next wedding I attend: You are not the bride, Ali. No one gives a care what you look like.

Except you.