Before the rehearsal dinner, I'm lying in a shampoo chair with my head in the black sink, neck arched upward in a perfect positionto have my throat cut, and I catch a distant whiff of marijuana. Mother, I think. With that single word, an unease comes shimmering into my solar plexus. My stylist, Richard, who's been vigorously scrubbing my scalp, twists my soapy hair into a unicorn horn, saying, Maybe you should wear it like this down the aisle. I interrupt him, rising up. Do you smell that? I say. What? he says. Pot, I say. Lifting his nose in the air, he gives a stuffed-up snuffle, then says, Allergies.
