My wedding headdress was a simple arrangement of wire covered with white organza and topped with a small floral strip of white carnations; pearl beads scattered over. Three strands of piping, dotted with pearl flowers hung from the back. It was held in place with two small hair combs. I still have it. Should I keep it?

On my wedding day, it held my thick wavy hair in place. I wore my hair loose, not in the traditional bun worn by women in the Friends, the sect into which I had been born. Apparently, some liberties were allowed for weddings. The headdress, and the short lengths of trailing piping at the back were my nod to a wedding veil, definitely NOT worn by any girls at weddings in the Friends that I knew of at the time.

It was a happy day.

After all the organisation of choosing and printing wedding invitations, mailing them out at the required time (I think it was six weeks’ notice, as recommended by wedding etiquette magazines); after completing the typing of James’ electrical engineering thesis; after getting the place cards printed; after writing out the vows; after all the anxiety and the uncertainty about whether guests would actually physically be able to attend, due to huge deluges of rain and flooding; after seriously thinking the whole thing ought to be cancelled because of the weather; after all this, it was a happy day.

I didn’t think too much beyond the day. I knew that having sex that night for the first time might be a thing, (sex before marriage was definitely NOT an option in the Friends), but I wasn’t too worried. James looks so sweet and soft and handsome in his pale blue wedding suit, with wide navy satin lapels. He had chosen me. I believed in our love and thought it would conquer everything. We were different. Our love was different. We would be happy forever and ever.

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