Walking Down The Aisle Backwards

Today is going to be the happiest day of my life. I'm one short hour away from walking down that aisle and becoming husband to the most wonderful woman on the face of the planet. And despite weeks and months of doubts and second thoughts, I'm not experiencing any of those dreaded "cold feet" symptoms this morning. Everything about this feels right. I'm taking the next big step in my life and I know it's the right one.

And so far everything is going like clockwork. The guests are starting to arrive. The photographer is setting up. The florist is doing her thing. My folks are busy bothering my in-laws-to-be. Everything is under control. Nothing can go wrong. I'm ready. This is going to be my finest hour.

Looking in the full length mirror, I realize, I am one handsome man. Or is it true what they say that every guy looks good in a tux? No matter. Today is my day.

Just then, my equally dapper looking best man reminds me how lucky we guys have it. "Just think," he says, "one floor down, in a room identical to this one, World War Three is probably breaking out." I'll bet he's right. No doubt this very moment panic and mayhem are sweeping through that bridal suite. My lovely bride and her maids are racing against the clock, frantically preparing for the main event.

We guys really do have it easy when you think about it. On our wedding day, we simply shave, jump in the shower, towel down, splash on some cologne, quick dry the hair, slip into our rented tux and bam! we're ready for the first day of the rest of our lives. But it's not so easy for the fairer sex. They start their planning years in advance, pouring over glossy magazines trying to pick out their fantasy gown, then once they've found it, there are endless fittings and refittings because they've put on a couple of ounces. Months are spent looking for the perfect accessories to match, not to mention the countless trips to the mall searching for the right shoes. And as if that weren't enough, once the big day arrives there's an hour to do the hair, another hour for the make-up, and yet another hour just to get the whole ensemble looking picture perfect. Phew! I'm exhausted just imagining it. No, we guys definitely have it easy.

Snapping me out of my reverie, my best man points out that it's only twenty minutes to show time. I make a few minor adjustments to my cummerbund. I must say, I really do look good. And I feel great. Today is my day...uh, wait a minute. There's one little eyebrow hair that just won't go where it's suppose to. Well, no use forcing it. I'll just pluck out the little sucker. Thank goodness for these tweezers on my Swiss Army knife. "Hey, too bad you can't transplant a few of those to the back of your head," says my best man, attempting to be funny. Low blow. He knows how sensitive I am about my recently noticeable bald spot.

My bride-to-be claims it's cute, she even calls it her love patch, but personally, I hate it. I'd rather lose a limb. My hair is my masculinity and lately a whole lot of that masculinity has been backing up the drain in my shower.

I look at myself again in the mirror. You know what? To hell with him. No one's going to see my hair, not with this winning smile on my face. I look good. Today is my day!

"Just think, while you're saying your vows, exchanging rings and kissing the bride, two hundred and fifty of your guests will have little else to do than stare at the back of your head," my best man points out with an impish grin. I am suddenly gripped with sheer terror! He's right! They won't see my smile. They won't see my clean shaven face. They won't see the sparkle in my eye. All they'll see is the back of my head and that lousy, rotten bald spot. I twist around in front of the mirror, trying to assess the full extent of my vulnerability. My heart sinks. How can they miss that thing? It's big enough to be seen from the space shuttle! I'm screwed.

Panic starts to set in. What can I do? Is twenty minutes enough time to have hair implants? Does the hotel guest shop stock toupees? Damn, if only I'd thought of this sooner. Maybe a year ago I could've started taking Propecia. Or even six months ago gotten my hands on some industrial strength Rogaine. But now... now it's too late!

I frantically start pulling off my tux. "What are you doing?!" asks my not-so-best man. "What does it look like?" I say, "The wedding's off! If I were Jewish this wouldn't be a problem. I'd slap on the beanie and no one would be the wiser, but I'm not, so I can't!" "Hey, it's not that bad. No one's gonna say anything. I was just razzing you a little, man. You were too calm, " says my soon-to-be-off-the-Christmas-list best man.

I force myself to take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard that I'm sure they can hear it all the way down in the bridal suite. I stare into the mirror. You know, I still look good. Maybe I am overreacting. Maybe this situation isn't as bad as I'm making it. I put my tuxedo jacket back on and readjust my cummerbund. I take a few more deep breaths. I'm starting to feel better. Everything's going to be okay. I think I can handle this. I pull open a couple of dresser drawers, searching past the Gideon bible and complimentary note pad. There it is! Problem solved.

My best man watches in utter disbelief as I carefully dab on the black shoe polish. Hey, I don't care what anyone says, I'm getting married in less than five minutes and today is my day! I just wish I wasn't a blond.