Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

Seriously, stop. I can only take so much.

Is my brother invited?

Do you think I’d put his beautiful head at risk over something this stupid?

Well, if he’s your future prince consort, he’d better get used to this kind of thing, don’t you think?

There are some things I think even a future prince consort should be spared.

Put like a true royal.

CHAPTER 7

3:10 p.m., Thursday, April 30

Third-Floor Apartment

Consulate General of Genovia

New York City

Not a lot of time to write because Paolo is giving me a blow-dry and it’s rude to write in one’s journal while someone is performing personal grooming services on you (also difficult, especially when that person has applied press-on nails over your bitten-down nails, and the glue/paint on those nails is still drying).

Anyway, Paolo started out the appointment upset because I wouldn’t let him cut off all my hair (quote from Paolo: “It looks better short, it shows offa your long neck”), but I know the truth:

Paolo just wants to do something different that will get my photo onto all the fashion sites, and the best way to do that these days is with a “daring” pixie cut like so many of the twentysomething starlets are doing.

But I’m not an actress in a movie about someone dying of cancer/tuberculosis, so:

I said, “No, thank you, Paolo, I like my hair better long, but if your arms are tired, you can leave the blow-drying to one of your assistants.”

This offended him very much. He sniffed, “No, Principessa! Paolo never get tired,” which is fine with me since now we don’t have to talk anymore (Paolo doesn’t like to shout over the whine of hair driers. Also a relief: that he can’t tell what I’m writing since he’s not so good at reading English. Or any other language that I can tell, except the language of beauty).

But unfortunately he did notice my twitch earlier and said, “Principessa, you look like the pirate, only not the hot one played by Johnny Depp, what is wrong?”

Generally I don’t believe in pouring out one’s hardships to one’s hairdresser, because, as Grandmère is always reminding me, “Your personal baggage should only be shared with family, Amelia . . . and the bellboy, of course.” This is pretty good advice, except that usually family members are the ones causing the baggage problems, so I find that therapists and good friends can be more helpful with it.

But Paolo has been around so long, he’s like family. So before I knew it, it all came tumbling out.

This turned out to be one of the few times I should have listened to Grandmère.

Paolo wasn’t at all sympathetic, especially when I mentioned the fact that right after I logged off from my conversation with Lilly, I went to Google News to see what the media was saying about the protest today, and the first headline I saw was from the Post. It screamed:

“Why Won’t He Marry Mia?”

Really? That is what the editors feel is the most important news to report on today, the reasons Michael Moscovitz hasn’t proposed to me yet?

Of course it isn’t, it’s just what they think will get the most clicks.

And of course it worked, because even I clicked on it, knowing I shouldn’t have, because Michael and I are mature adults and of course we’ve discussed marriage at length, and the decision we’ve come to (and our reason for it) is our business and ours alone.

(Except of course that my grandmother thinks it should be her business and so she’s always asking me with elaborate casualness, “So when do you think you and Michael will be getting married?” the way other people ask, “So when do you think you and Michael will be coming over for drinks?”)

But apparently the Post thinks it is everyone’s business, since they’ve printed the reasons they believe Michael doesn’t want to marry me, which include (but are not limited to):

1. The fact that after we’re married, Michael will have to give up his American citizenship and be called Prince Michael, Royal Consort. (True.)