Princess' Diaries

But then we got there, and I saw Chez Paolo wasn’t a house at all. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. It looked a little like a really fancy hospital—it was all frosted glass and these Japanese-looking trees. And then we got inside; all of these skinny young people were floating around, dressed all in black. They were all excited to see my grandmother, and took us to this little room where there were these couches and all these magazines. So then I figured Grandmère maybe had some plastic surgery scheduled, and while I am sort of against plastic surgery—unless you’re like Leola Mae and you need lips—I was like, Well, at least she’ll be off my back for a while.

Boy, was I ever wrong! Paolo isn’t a doctor. I doubt he’s ever even been to college! Paolo is astylist! Worse, he stylespeople! I’m serious. He takes unfashionable, frumpy people like me, and he makes them stylish—for aliving. And Grandmère sicced him onme!Me!! Like it’s bad enough I don’t have breasts. She has to tell some guy namedPaolo that?

What kind of name is Paolo, anyway? I mean, this is America, for Pete’s sake! YOUR NAME IS PAUL!!!

That’s what I wanted to scream at him. But, of course, I couldn’t. I mean, it wasn’t Paolo’s fault my grandmother dragged me there. And as he pointed out to me, he only made time for me in his incredibly busy schedule because Grandmère told him it was this big emergency.

God, how embarrassing.I’m a fashion emergency.

Anyway, I was plenty peeved at Grandmère, but I couldn’t start yelling at her right there in front of Paolo. She totally knew it, too. She just sat there on this velvet couch, petting Rommel, who was sitting on her lap with his legs crossed—she’s even taught herdog to sit ladylike, andhe’s a boy—sipping a Sidecar she got somebody to make for her and readingW.

Meanwhile, Paolo was picking up chunks of my hair and making this face and going, all sadly, "It must go. It mustall go."

And it went. All of it. Well, almost all of it. I still have some like bangs and a little fringe in back.

Did I mention that I’m no longer a dishwater blond? No. I’m just a plain old blond now.

And Paolo didn’t stop there. Oh, no. I now have fingernails. I am not kidding. For the first time in my life, I have fingernails. They’re completely fake, but I have them. And it looks like I’ll have them for a while: I already tried to pull one off, and it HURT. What kind of secret astronaut glue did that manicurist use, anyway?