An outdoor September.
Maya called us in March about September. She wanted hair that looked like she’d done it herself — only better, and with a single braid hidden behind the veil. We did three trials. The last one was the one.
The morning was clear. We started at six, the bridesmaids at seven, the mothers at eight. By ten, everyone was ready, and Maya was on the porch reading a letter from her grandmother. We were there for the lipstick touch at six, and for the dance-floor refresh at ten.