Meet Angelica, founder of Wedding Solutions by Angel, LLC., a woman-owned and -operated business that specializes in creating the perfect looks for any occasion. From hair and makeup to styling photoshoots and refining aesthetics, Weddings Solutions by Angel. is ready to help make your big day anything short of extraordinary. To learn more about their services and what sets this business apart from others, we checked in with her and her team of experts.

What services do you provide?

Our wedding hair and makeup team is ready to travel throughout the delmarva area or to destination weddings for any hair and makeup needs. We are not just limited to weddings—we style proms, engagement shoots, maternity shoots—so you name it, we’re here for you.

Our team of master cosmetologists and makeup artists have years of experience in the field and can make your dream look a reality. We do “photography fittings” for hair and makeup so we capture the perfect look for your special event or big day.

A unique service that sets us apart from others is our “grooming service.” Since we know some grooms (and groomsmen) can be last-minute when planning their wedding cuts, we visit them onsite for haircuts and styling.

What sets your team apart?

We have a patented business and flow from start to finish. We start with a trial, contract, and wedding day itinerary to ensure nothing but the best for our brides and their bridesmaids. Our skilled and detailed bridal coordinator corresponds with the bride from beginning to end.

We provide a team with back-up stylists to ensure the bride and her bridal party are taken care of no matter what, setting us apart the normal salon or individual stylist that markets this concept. COVID-19 and the uncertainty of the world helped us develop this hyper-managed approach.

Our time management helps us handle the largest of bridal parties and our stylists have been evaluated for their skill and technique. We’ve also traveled to numerous wedding venues so we are familiar with the different layouts and know the best strategies to make your photo sessions unique to you.

Tell us about your mission.

 Wedding Solutions by Angel. strives to make your wedding or other special occasion experience a “cut above” the normal salon and spa. On one of the most photographed and important days in a woman’s life, we take pride in knowing from start to finish the bride will be beautiful, confident, and satisfied. We are here to solve your perfect look…. to say, “I do.”

About the Owner:

It’s Angelica’s passion to provide exemplary service which inspired her to create the company, Wedding Solutions by Angel. Angelica’s background consists of 10 years of experience as a master cosmetologist and NFL Superbowl/Probowl cheerleader for the Baltimore Ravens. Being in the spotlight and behind the camera herself made her realize there was no room for error in hair and makeup. One of the most important, photographed days in a woman’s life is her wedding day. Our experienced bridal coordinator, Natalie, will walk you through the process from start to finish, from engagement photos and wedding day photos to even maternity photos in the future. Your look will be perfected at your trial and flawless on your special day.

Angelica Windsor

Founder & Owner of Wedding Solutions by Angel, LLC. 

Welcome to the first issue of Local Love under the umbrella of Baltimore Weddings, formerly Baltimore Bride. We officially launched our new name with our 2019 issue, and we’ve been so happy with how excited everyone is about it. Our name better reflects who we have always been in our magazine: inclusive and celebratory of all kinds of love and full of stories that extend beyond just the bride.

We adore this Local Love supplement. It’s a chance for us to offer a true service to our readers: nine real couples and their weddings that have taken place around here with local vendors and genuinely delightful ideas. Read more at BaltimoreWeds.com.

Last week, I took my daughter shopping for a dress for her upcoming bridal shower. While I waited for her to come out of the dressing room and model top contenders, I flashed back to my own shower, over 40 years ago. I wore a denim jumpsuit, chunky-heeled shoes, and an attitude.

To me, a shower was sexist—it made me feel like the “little woman” eager to share recipes and stain removal tips. I resented the expectation that household duties were mine. I craved respect for my business acumen, not my brisket. I envied the men, probably at a bar slamming shots and betting on football—no vacuum cleaners nor dish towels for them.

Nevertheless, I did not want to hurt anyone’s feelings. The shower organizers spent time, energy, and money to plan this for me. So, I pasted a smile on my face, swept aside resentment, and entered a living room brimming with chattering women and aromas of yellow roses and white tulips.

After a proper period of schmoozing and indulging—mini tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches, blintz souffles, and champagne punch—I was ushered into a blue velvet arm chair. A ruffled, white umbrella dangled above my head. The guests arranged folding wooden chairs into a half circle around me.

An aunt handed me a present from the mountain of gifts adorned in silver and white wrapping papers and ribbons. “Here, open this one and hand me the bow.” She affixed the bow to a white paper plate, as I finessed a round object out of its square box.

“Oh, a crock pot! How great!” I said.

The aunt lit up, “You can put your brisket and potatoes in here before you go to work. When you get home, voila, dinner is ready.”

I thought, “lucky me.”

A cousin on my fiancée’s side, pen in hand, was writing something on a legal pad. I asked, “What are you doing?” Snickers from the crowd. Then, a “you’ll see.”

I opened a set of knives, a paper towel holder, and a can opener. When I got to a matzah ball soup pot, I said, “Oh, this is great—it’s so big.” The guests erupted into laughter. More giggles and scribbles when I opened a set of sheets, “I love these, they’re so soft, I’m tired of stiff ones.”

It took me almost two hours to unwrap and fuss over each present. I could have finished in 20 minutes, but I was admonished, “Please try and open the gifts gently, so you don’t tear the beautiful paper.” I guess someone wanted to reuse it.

By now, the paper plate was covered with bows and ribbons, two ribbons dangling, ties for the homemade hat. A gaggle of guests shouted, “Put it on. Put it on.” I should have been a good sport and gone along with their request—but I wasn’t.

The ladies refilled their punch glasses, it was time for the big reveal. The recording secretary, legal pad in hand, announced, “Now let’s hear what Laura will say on her wedding night.” Then, starting with, “It’s so big,” she read aloud my comments about the gifts. I laughed along with the group, keeping my thoughts to myself. “When will this be over? Don’t they know that my fiancée and I already live together?”

Now, four decades later, I want to slap my younger self. I had assumed that success in business required that I distance myself from stereotypical female activities. I was so driven to climb that corporate ladder, that I stepped over traditions that would later bring love, safety, comfort, and belonging.

I didn’t yet know that sitting around the family dinner table and asking “how was your day?” would serve to ground me. And throwing a brisket and potatoes into that crock pot would facilitate those dinners. Briskets and business are not mutually exclusive. I didn’t understand how a clean and organized home would give me a sense of control in a world where I had so little. I also didn’t realize that household chores are not the innate purview of either partner. Like everything else in marriage, they are negotiable.

But my biggest miscalculation was the role that women would play in my life. I tried so hard to fit in what was then considered a “man’s world” that I overlooked the power of women. It turned out that the women in my life nurtured, supported, and loved me. They let me process, not just problem solve. They were not afraid to get dirty with emotions, share vulnerabilities, nor shed pretenses of perfection.

Some of the women who loved and supported me the most are hosting my daughter’s bridal shower. The room will not be overflowing with guests, just a small group of Jackie’s closet friends and relatives. I’m hoping that they skip the ribbon hat and refrain from predicting her wedding night articulations. I know they will embrace and help Jackie prepare for this next stage of life.

My daughter’s generation knows not to diminish the camaraderie of women nor overvalue the approval of men. They also recognize that as women, whatever path we chose, we are more alike than different. And regardless of our differences, we stand strong for one another.

I remember when I was 8, sitting in the back seat of my father’s Ford station wagon as he drove my grandma, my mother’s mother, to the airport for her flight back from our home in Miami to her tenement in New York. Not five minutes into the trip, he belted out, “Hate to see you go. Hate to see you go. Hope the heck you never come back. Hate to see you go.”

My grandmother turned to me, shrugged her shoulders, and we both chuckled. The same chuckle we shared time and again during a week of my father’s interminable mother-in-law jokes.

“Why do fathers-in-law die before mothers-in-law?”

“Why?”

“Because they want to.”

I knew that my father loved my grandma—yet, he couldn’t resist teasing her. I also knew, that when I grew up, I didn’t want to be a mother-in-law.

Now a half-century later, women hold over 20 percent of the seats in Congress. We are Supreme Court justices, neurosurgeons, astronauts, and CEOs. We climb elusive ladders, struggle with high-stress careers, and manage high-stress children. We advocate for social justice, insist on equality, and demand respect. We refuse to take a back seat to anyone—unless, of course, it’s our daughter-in-law.

Because, we’re afraid of her.

When our son slides that ring (the one we helped select and perhaps paid for) on his beloved’s finger, power seeps through the metal. Later, if the couple has children, that power has potential to punish.

A friend of mine confided, “My daughter-in-law asked me to watch the kids next Friday. I told her I couldn’t because I had a doctor appointment.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It was a lie. I didn’t want to admit I was going to yoga.”

I understood. With self-righteous retribution, her daughter-in-law could veto a family dinner, renege on Sunday brunch, or worse—withhold the grandchildren.

It’s time for mother-in-law empowerment.

But, before we can wiggle our way into a mutually respectable relationship, we must look at our own behavior. Have we unwittingly fed the stereotype? Do we attempt to usurp our daughter-in-law’s judgment for our own? A simple, “Are you wearing that to dinner, dear?” is enough to poke the bias. A well-intended, “Don’t you think you allow the kids too much screen time?” can unravel the relationship.

Even if we give no cause for distance, our daughters-in-law may have their own reasons for keeping us at arm’s length. Some may think it’s disloyal to their own mothers if they cozy up to us. It’s not. Others think we’re in competition for first place with their husbands. We’re not—they’ve already won. We just want involved spectator status. A few are too insecure to share their families with us. It’s our job to help them to feel safe.

I have two daughters-in-law. (And a son-in-law to be.) I admit, when I first met them, I tried to swallow my words and blend into the background. That didn’t last long—I leaked through the façade. And, I’m glad.

I offered a relationship based on authenticity and equality. And they accepted. Neither of them marginalizes my self-worth, nor I theirs. But, like desserts at lunch time, I try to exercise restraint and refrain from meddling or judging. Together, we spurned that archaic stereotype. And, hopefully, modeled appropriate behaviors for the next generation.

My childhood fear of mother-in-law bias never materialized.

At my daughters-in-law’s weddings, I did not “wear beige nor keep my mouth shut.” Rather, with their approval, I wore navy to one and black to the other. Not because I was contrarian, but because dark colors are slenderizing.

A few months ago, my husband, Charles, called me from work and said, “Listen to this text.”

I heard the excitement in his voice as he read: “Can you meet me for coffee or lunch one day next week? I want to ask you a question.”

Puzzled by his excitement, I asked, “Who’s it from?”

“Lorin.”

Lorin is my daughter’s boyfriend. They had been dating for three and a half years and we adored him. This text could only mean one thing, right? He was planning to propose.

“So, when are you seeing him?” I said, now not able to contain my own excitement.

“We’re having lunch on Tuesday. Don’t say a word to anyone, we have to keep this a secret.”

I knew he was right and with more will power than it took not to steal a French fry from my grandson’s plate—I kept quiet and waited.

On Tuesday, as agreed, Charles and Lorin had lunch. Later, Charles filled me in on the details and said that Lorin was going to propose the following Wednesday at a restaurant near their home in D.C. His eyes welled up as he muttered, “I bet he can’t read Berenstain Bears to her in as good a voice as me.”

The night of the planned proposal, Charles and I were too anxious to do anything but wait for Jackie’s call. Their dinner reservation was for 7:30. By 8, I was pacing, cell phone in hand. At 8:30, Charles mumbled, “Obviously, he’s not doing it before dessert.” At 9:15 he said, “I don’t get it; what’s taking him so long?” Finally, at 9:30 I got a text from Jackie. It was a picture of her hand donning a diamond rind. The message read, “I’ll call you after dinner.”

Incredulous, I called her and cried, “After dinner! Are you kidding me!” She laughed; but, took control. “Mom, he just this second proposed, let me call you when we’re done.” Helplessly I muttered, “Did you say “yes?”

“Of course.”

My only daughter, my youngest child was getting married—I needed to share the news with my mother. I yearned to hear her say, “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it! Jackie! Jackie’s getting married! I love you! I’m so happy!” But when I called her, I got nothing. While it seemed that she understood her granddaughter was getting married, she could not hold onto the thought. It hit me hard: My mother has Parkinson’s disease and its cohort, dementia. She lives with round-the-clock caregivers in South Florida. She would never share my dreams of long lacy veils and white rose bouquets. She wouldn’t even ask about the ring. (Two years ago, she would have insisted on pictures and a copy of the appraisal.)

In her prime, my mother set the ultimate standard for celebrations. Elegance, lavishness, and perfection were her trademarks. My father loved telling the story of him and my mother shopping for my wedding cake. They drove a couple of hours for an appointment with the wedding cake king of South Florida. My mother interviewed him, “Show me a picture of the best cake you ever made.” The king’s eyes sparkled. He climbed upon a step-stool and reached for the photo album lying on the top row of his bookshelves. Filled with pride, he sat down beside my mother, turned to a bookmarked page and said, “Look, my finest.” My mother leaned over the page and examined the cake, like she would have examined Jackie’s diamond for flaws, and said, “Is there anything better?”

Without my mother to steer me, I turned to bridal magazines and surfed wedding websites. I didn’t want to nudge Jackie, it was too soon—she deserved to savor her moment. However, a few days later, the words thrust out from my mouth like a sneeze, “Have you given any thought to where and when you want to get married?” I was gently chastised. “Mom, please. I will get there but give me some time.”

From then on, I rationed my inquiries. And in that space, tucked inside my mattress of joy was a painful tick—loneliness. I was determined to fill it by diving deep into wedding fantasies. Alone with my magazine layouts, I envisioned Jackie descending a circular mahogany staircase. Her guests, outfitted in tuxedos and gowns, watch as she gracefully steps into a gold-leaf paneled hall, adorned with massive Baccarat crystal chandeliers. Eager to realize my visions, I called several Willard-type hotels and checked for available dates.

A couple of weeks later, Jackie was ready to look at venues. Proud of my early surveillance efforts, I emailed her the links to my favorite ballrooms. She gave me the courtesy of perusing them before letting me know, “Mom, we don’t want anything formal, no hotels. We’re thinking more barn or warehouse.”

I swallowed my disappointment and let it digest for a few days. Then, to my surprise, relief moved into its place. I remembered how I had felt like an imposter at my own wedding. I was embarrassed at the Versailles-worthy wedding cake and the gaggles of waitstaff garbed in black-tie and white gloves. The orchestra was better suited for Carnegie Hall and the flowers for Butchart Gardens. As the lead player in mom’s grandiosity, I felt self-conscious and out of place.

I did not want this for my daughter. I wanted Jackie to realize her own dreams. But, at the same time, I felt traitorous disregarding my mother’s taste. Jackie understood. Like me, she wasn’t willing to extricate her grandma’s touch from her special day. Together, we found the sweet spot. The wedding will take place not at a fancy ballroom nor a rustic warehouse but at a reception hall on the Chesapeake Bay with walls of glass that allow sunlight to flood the room.

My mother cannot attend the wedding, but we will feel her presence. When I talked to the caterer, it was mom who asked, “What is your best cut of meat?” Likewise, it was mom’s voice that whispered, “Make sure you have enough bartenders so that your guests won’t have to wait in line.” And, mom shook her head “no” to the standard tablecloths.

My mother would be so proud of her granddaughter. Jackie knows what she wants and is not afraid to ask for it. She is comfortable setting boundaries and doesn’t allow the generations before her to steamroll over her wishes. I look at this confident woman, my daughter, and, I’m certain—“there isn’t anything better.”

By now, the whole world knows that American actress Meghan Markle will marry Britain’s Prince Harry in May. Congratulations to the happy couple.  

Also by now, many outlets have pointed out that Markle is not the first Yank to marry into the ranks of royalty. Previous trailblazers include fellow actress Grace Kelly (Monaco) and socialites Lee Bouvier (Poland) and Marie Chantal-Miller (Denmark/Greece). Plus, as we all learned from Downton Abbey, marrying American heiresses was all the rage among the British upper class in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as venerable British families sought new American fortunes to prop up their money pit estates. In other words, there’s a long precedent of transatlantic marriages, for any number of reasons, including love. 

But what many may not know is that two Baltimore women are among the more colorful members of this elite tradition. 

The first, Elizabeth “Betsy” Patterson Bonaparte, was the daughter of a prominent Baltimore merchant who, at one point, was the second richest man in Maryland.  

In 1803, Betsy, who was known for her style, vivacity, and beauty, married Napoleon’s youngest brother, Jérome. The marriage was plagued almost from the start. Napoleon disapproved of the union and urged his brother to annul it. When the couple sailed for Europe in 1804, Napoleon forbid Betsy—by then pregnant with the couple’s only child—from disembarking. Her husband pledged to procure Napoleon’s acceptance, but was unsuccessful and quickly gave up, abandoning his pregnant young bride. Betsy found sanctuary in London, where she gave birth to a son, Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte (called Bo), in 1805. But save for one brief encounter in 1817, she never saw her husband again. (She was granted a divorce from him in 1815 by special act of the Maryland legislature.)

But don’t cry for Betsy. The irrepressible heiress returned to Baltimore where she successfully managed her family’s estate and remained a figure of fascination, even making a return visit to Europe at one point where she was warmly welcomed by high society. She died in 1879 at the ripe old age of 94 and is buried in Green Mount Ceremony where her tombstone reads: “After life’s fitful fever she sleeps well.” 

The second—and even more controversial—Baltimorean to infiltrate European royal society was Wallis Simpson, who fell in love with the man who would become King Edward VIII in the early 1930s, and nearly toppled the British monarchy in the process. 

Simpson was born Bessie Wallis Warfield just over the Pennsylvania-Maryland line in June 1896. Her father died of tuberculosis shortly thereafter and she grew up in Baltimore, bouncing from one address to another with her widowed mother. For a period of time around 1905, she and her mother lived in a room at what is now Hotel Brexton on Park Avenue in Mt. Vernon. Thanks to generous relations, including her uncle and one-time Baltimore postmaster Solomon Davies Warfield, she attended the elite Oldfields School in Sparks-Glencoe, where she excelled socially and academically.    

When she became the mistress of then-Prince Edward in 1934, she was already on her second marriage. That marriage, to British shipping magnate Ernest Aldrich Simpson, would end in divorce in 1937, by which time Prince Edward’s father, King George V, had died and Edward had ascended to the throne. The new king marrying an American of no particular fortune or lineage was already an undesirable prospect, but, as the head of the Church of England, the king marrying a twice-divorced American of no particular lineage and fortune was out of the question. In December 1936, King Edward VIII abdicated the throne, telling the British public in a radio address that he “found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility, and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love.” 

Though the story was spun as one of gallantry and love, the reality was much more complicated, with Wallis and Edward—now dubbed the Duke and Duchess of Windsor—living as glamorous exiles the rest of their lives. And while there does seem to have been a genuine bond between the two, royal watchers have long gossiped that the relationship was unhealthy with Wallis acting as a domineering mommy/mistress figure to the feckless, resentful Edward. It has also been said that the Duke and Duchess were Nazi sympathizers, which further tarnished their reputations. (For interesting portrayals of the Duke and Duchess, see Netflix’s The Crown or the Oscar-winning The King’s Speech.)

So, you know, maybe it’s a good thing Meghan’s from California and not Baltimore. We don’t seem to have the best track record with royal weddings.      

Photo shoot: I got into this in high school. I just started shooting anything that was in front of me. I’d see dewdrops on the grass, flowers, and trees—whatever was in my world. 

Eye-to-eye: None of us know where my [artistic] eye came from because my dad is a nuclear engineer and my mom is a nurse practitioner. 

Youth on her side: There’s this naïve optimism in the space of being 23, chasing down what I want to do with my life, and being blissfully open-minded to the world. 

Desk job: My office tends to be the place where I do all of my digital darkroom work—editing, processing of the images, designing of the albums, packaging boxes, and storing images. 

Let there be light: One thing people don’t always look at is the light. I looked at house after house [before I bought], and they were all dark, little cubes. 

Say cheese: I have a lot of vintage antique cameras, and my husband has collected some of them. A few of the cameras are my late grandfather’s on my dad’s side. 

Sea and be seen: My good friend, interior designer Courtney Hardie, helped me pull pieces that are a mix of modern with coastal and nautical, everything from little pieces of coral to a shell mirror that subtly hints at the sea. 

Final snapshot: When all is said and done in 100 years, and but a handful of people remember my name, I will still have left a mark on this world that matters. I will have done something not for myself, but for other families and their loved ones.