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My 91-year-old grandmother had her 1954 wedding album out on her lap when I visited the other day. “I wanted to remember how beautiful I used to be,” she sighed.
Every time my mom comes across a photo of her own 1984 nuptials, she says the same thing: “Look at how skinny I was!” (Or, sometimes, “Can you believe Daddy wore a white tuxedo with tails?” Which I cannot.)
I share the impulse. My iPhone occasionally resurfaces pictures from my wedding – the first one – in that awful, automated Featured Photo carousel; when it does, I barely register the presence of my ex-husband. I don’t recall the wonder or worry I felt as I walked down the aisle. I see myself in profile, smiling, face pressed against a future stranger’s, and think, Wow, my arms! My thin, thin arms!
It’s been nearly a decade since I said “I do” and, although I couldn’t tell you a thing about my sister’s maid of honor speech or even my own vows, the Goopian details of my pre-wedding diet are disturbingly fresh in my mind.
No carbs, no cocktails. Bowls of bone broth and smoothies spiked with sauerkraut (for digestion, duh). Two workouts a day – cycling, hot yoga, pilates, barre; pick your fit-into-the-dress poison – and a single square of Addictive Wellness Love Chocolate, infused with “the heart-opening properties of Reishi Mushroom”, for dessert. Can you tell I lived in Los Angeles?
On the big day, I appeared to be what Big Wedding would call my “best self”: thin-limbed, however briefly, with gelatin-plumped skin and my curly hair professionally straightened and re-curled into more uniform, photo-friendly, finger-combed ringlets for the low, low price of $735.
In actuality, I was my worst self: an unwell woman drinking fermented cabbage juice for breakfast and committing my life to a man who may or may not have later insisted on buying me a Peloton to lose all the weight I gained back post-wedding.
I’ve changed, I swear! I’m divorced, and back on the bread. I moved home to the east coast. I de-brainwashed from beauty culture, and fell in love with a writer who doesn’t mind if I don’t shave my legs and debates me about how Guy Debord’s concept of the spectacle applies to the plastic surgery industry. He says he loves my “big, Italian nose”. He’s a wonderful dancer. We’re getting married in October.
It seems like plenty of other people are, too. With the 2026 wedding season officially upon us, the inbox for my Ask Ugly beauty advice column is stuffed with bridal beauty questions.
“I’m so exhausted by the bridal prep, makeup and weight loss tips being pushed on me via social media,” reads one. “I feel pressure to perform a specific type of beauty (thin, young, ‘glowing’) when I get married,” says another. “How can I press up against this while also acknowledging that I do want to look ‘good’ on my wedding day?” they ask. “Because pictures are forever, right?”
Unfortunately, I’m unqualified to answer these questions. I’m still asking them myself.
That’s a little embarrassing to admit, since it’s my job to unpack beauty culture and expose manipulative marketing jargon. But reporting on, say, the “mass delusion” of no-makeup makeup doesn’t immunize me against delusion. I can (and do!) debunk propaganda about “poreless” skin and feel bad about my pores, thank you very much.
Plus, it’s a particularly strange time to be a bride, beauty-wise.
Cosmetic surgery is being democratized, even normalized (in the media and our minds, if not IRL). Botox is on offer at a handful of Nordstrom stores – conveniently located next to the bridal shoe department, natch – and Wegovy is fast-tracking wedding weight loss.
Over 53% of respondents to a recent survey from the Cut said they spent between $1,ooo – $5,000 to appear “effortless” on their wedding day, and just under 2% spent $20,000 or more on wedding-related beauty treatments. One participant got a $13,000 nose job six months before tying the knot. “I didn’t want to look at our photos after and think, Oh my gosh, if I had just done the nose job, I would love this photo,” she said.
Seeing those statistics, the beauty critic in me is compelled to reiterate that wedding day beauty is its own brand of body horror, in which one’s immortal digital doppelganger achieves perfection via violence to the mortal body. (Spooky.) But the fiancee in me feels like a hypocrite. I get it! I want to look “good” in wedding pics, too!
Then again, having done this before, I know what it takes to look “good” – in the Vogue Weddings sense – and I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to curate a “simple” 19-step skincare routine. I don’t want to sensitize my teeth with Groupon whitening treatments. I really don’t want to pay a holistic colon hydrotherapist to stick a hose up my asshole and “debloat” my large intestine again. (I reiterate: I was unwell.)
I do want to reconcile my desire to look pretty in pictures with my rage against the bridal beauty machine, though. My analyst recommends leaning into “a sense of occasion”. A wedding day isn’t any other day, she reminds me – it’s legally and existentially special. It makes sense to want it to be superficially special, too, and special touches need not capitulate to patriarchal appearance ideals. For example, the male gaze would roll its eyes at the swan-shaped headpiece I’d like to wear in lieu of a veil!
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The swan hat isn’t for sale, sadly, but its silliness did help me define my bridal beauty ethos: less augmentation, more decoration.
When I pause to consider which aesthetic enhancements will be worth the time, money, energy and stress they require, I realize few seem worth it to me. Altering my features with tools like Botox, filler and full-coverage foundation to satisfy conventional beauty standards doesn’t feel particularly expressive or exciting or aligned with my current interests, so it’s out. Pale blue eyeshadow and 60s-inspired black eyeliner, on the other hand? Fun! Artsy! A nod to my childhood idol, Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl!
Concealer and blush are more corrective than decorative – the former disappears discoloration where it’s not socially acceptable, whereas the latter adds discoloration where it is – but I’ll probably wear some anyway. I internalized Bobbi Brown’s no-makeup makeup rules for looking “Pretty, Natural, Sexy & Awesome” at the impressionable age of 11 and it’s taking a while to work through that. (If I can’t morph into a flawless physical specimen in just a few months, I can’t expect to develop complete confidence in my scar-scattered complexion by then, either.)
My day-to-day skincare routine is fine; I don’t need to kick it up a notch. I’m not a mani-pedi person, so I’ll file my nails before the ceremony and be done with it.
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There is one slightly over-the-top hair treatment I’m planning for the morning-of: a swim in the Atlantic Ocean. What can I say? I have yet to find a sea salt spray that simulates the beach-waving magic of the Jersey Shore, and getting married seems like a good reason to spring for the real thing.
As for my “bridal body”? I’d love to not care, but on a practical level, I do. I have a dress. The dress has a size. The size has to fit. I’m opting for a look that’s loose, swing-y and zipperless, which helps. Emotionally, I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to act on my appearance anxiety. I can feel the feeling and leave it at that; I can refuse to resort to colonics and sauerkraut.
Because in 10 or 20 or 40 years, when my future husband and I flip through our wedding album, I don’t want to remember how beautiful or skinny or frizz-free I was. I don’t want our pictures to provoke memories of two-a-day workouts, or the oily taste of bone broth on my tongue.
This time, I want to remember the love, the dancing, the kissing, the cake. The sore cheeks from smiling so hard. The electricity in the air when the DJ bumped Trumpets by Jason Derulo. (Sorry, baby! It stays on the playlist.) And if I happen to notice how good my hair looks? I hope it reminds me of the cold October ocean on my skin. Being free and weightless in the water. Diving in.
