Thursday morning had been scheduled for the Mehendi session, a traditional event during which all the ladies sit for hours having beautiful and intricate mehendi (henna) designs piped onto arms and feet in preparation for the big day. The mehendi is painstakingly applied by a team of young women and girls who have been trained by their mothers and grandmothers to in the art of creating stunningly elaborate swirls and designs each of which tells a secret story which winds around palms and fingers in an age old tradition. The mehendi is applied onto the skin using a kind of miniature piping bag and takes a while to dry, and then begins the fun part. It must be left to dry naturally and left to flake off rather than being rubbed off or peeled off, and only then will the colour really ‘take’. The temptation to scratch off the crusting goo is unbearable, yet I managed to get to the parlour (barefoot) and last an entire hour’s facial with my henna designs drying on hands and feet throughout. The final colour of the henna stain, is apparently a test of the bridegroom’s love for the bride – the darker the better. A dark blackish brown colouration means that your intended is burning with passion and love for his intended. An insipid muddy tinge means presumably that he can’t really be bothered either way.
And so I used all the tricks of the trade to produce a healthily dark colour – avoided scratching off the crusty dried henna, left it for hours, cleaned it off with mustard oil and didn’t wash til the next morning. The last bit was particularly vile and it took a few glasses of wine at the hen party in the evening to make me forget my sticky hands and feet, reeking of henna and oil.
I headed back to Jo’s place to meet the girls for the hen night. We’d decided long back to split forces and stay true to the hen/stag tradition. The girls (led by my sister Julie) had done themselves proud – apparently spending all afternoon deep in the nooks and crannies of New Market buying up their entire supply of anything which fitted the “bright, shiny and purple” requirement. I arrived back to find the house festooned with purple balloons, glitter and candles, with everything covered in shiny pink wrapping and a neat set of pink fluffy angel wings, mask and wand waiting for me to adorn complete the look. First I needed to get clean after a long day of being mehendied – no mean feat given that my hands were not supposed to touch water. Eventually Bridget (a trained nurse and accustomed to these things) gave me a sponge bath – bliss. Finally I felt clean enough to don said wings and mask, along with Christmas tree bauble earrings and sexy dress, and we were ready to go. Several glasses of Julie’s finest punch later, things were becoming only slightly raucous, when the doorbell rang. Tired of being without the girls, and with the best man unable to organize much of a party, the stag party landed.
We ended up in a fantastic club, half empty until we arrived to enliven the scene. Vivek and I consumed copious amounts of tequila shots and champagne (a lethal combination as we discovered the next morning) and generally had a fantastic last night of ‘freedom’ even though we were together which if you ask me was the very best way to celebrate my hen night – with my closest and dearest friends, family and beloved.
And so I used all the tricks of the trade to produce a healthily dark colour – avoided scratching off the crusty dried henna, left it for hours, cleaned it off with mustard oil and didn’t wash til the next morning. The last bit was particularly vile and it took a few glasses of wine at the hen party in the evening to make me forget my sticky hands and feet, reeking of henna and oil.
I headed back to Jo’s place to meet the girls for the hen night. We’d decided long back to split forces and stay true to the hen/stag tradition. The girls (led by my sister Julie) had done themselves proud – apparently spending all afternoon deep in the nooks and crannies of New Market buying up their entire supply of anything which fitted the “bright, shiny and purple” requirement. I arrived back to find the house festooned with purple balloons, glitter and candles, with everything covered in shiny pink wrapping and a neat set of pink fluffy angel wings, mask and wand waiting for me to adorn complete the look. First I needed to get clean after a long day of being mehendied – no mean feat given that my hands were not supposed to touch water. Eventually Bridget (a trained nurse and accustomed to these things) gave me a sponge bath – bliss. Finally I felt clean enough to don said wings and mask, along with Christmas tree bauble earrings and sexy dress, and we were ready to go. Several glasses of Julie’s finest punch later, things were becoming only slightly raucous, when the doorbell rang. Tired of being without the girls, and with the best man unable to organize much of a party, the stag party landed.
We ended up in a fantastic club, half empty until we arrived to enliven the scene. Vivek and I consumed copious amounts of tequila shots and champagne (a lethal combination as we discovered the next morning) and generally had a fantastic last night of ‘freedom’ even though we were together which if you ask me was the very best way to celebrate my hen night – with my closest and dearest friends, family and beloved.
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