- – — snip, snip, chop
It was over lunch three weeks after filming wrapped that Saskia’s new agent told her she needed to cut her hair. And she had sat in that dimly lit restaurant and self-consciously pet at her hair–then a thick mess of blonde ombre—and wondered what it was he saw when he looked at her, because his assessing look made her feel a little bit like an unkempt poodle. It was a silly thing, it was just hair, but Sas had sat up nights weaving and twisting it in complicated braids, had brushed it and dyed it and loved it and—
“Just trust me,” he’d said, “this is what’s going to take you from a girl-next-door to a star.”
—and, okay, magic words uttered, Saskia was on the phone with the salon he recommended within the hour.
And she’d nearly forgotten about the appointment—one she’d had to wait weeks and weeks for because, though she knew her name would one day be up in lights, it didn’t quite open doors or skip lines for her yet—until it had popped up in her calendar the beginning of this week.
She’d shut her eyes tight as the stylist worked, unable to watch beyond the first few snips as her lovely long hair felt away. When she stared at herself in the mirror after she was finished, bluntly-cut ends tickling her chin and neck, she’d felt a curious emptiness, like she was looking at a stranger, but it had been easy enough to paste on a smile and gush and slip the stylist a generous tip.
Now, she catches her reflection in shop windows and she can’t help but stop and stare at this unfamiliar girl looking back at her: is this what is means to be a star? To look so different from the girl in the mirror she remembered? To be made into someone else than she was when her agent took her on, when her director cast her? (That girl wasn’t good enough.) She meets her new movie-star-reflection’s eyes, and looks away, only to almost-guiltily find someone else’s. Caught in the throes of insecurity—only, to an outsider, it looks like narcissism.
“Oh, excuse me — ” (An independent poll says that Saskia Vanderbilt’s new haircut is: a) a glamorous and edgy turn for the budding young starlet; or b) a terrible, terrible mistake.) “I just wanted to ask—what do you think of my haircut?”
The paparazzi had been following her all day, nipping at her heels like incessant little Chihuahuas begging for a moment of her attention. The Princess wore an oversized sweater paired with tight jeans and pumps, a scarf over her head and large sunglasses covering her eyes. Her attempts at keeping a low profile were unsuccessful at best, but it was a curse she had learned to live with; there was not a soul on this island who did not recognize Adelaide Windsor. And who was she kidding? She was born to soak up the attention.
Adelaide had met a former close friend for lunch – though she used the term friend very loosely. Since becoming a member of the coalition, the girl had actually needed to make an effort to network, make important contacts. Future queen or not, without the proper influence the throne was but a fancy chair and the crown an overpriced headpiece. So she played nice with the many “friends” she had played with and quickly recycled – and they had let her. Who, after all, could afford to turn down the invitation of a royal?
After lunch, Addie had been able to sneak out the back of the restaurant, beyond the watchful eye of both the paparazzi and her bodyguards. Her youthful days of slipping away unnoticed paid off on occasion, though it was only a matter of time before someone found her. She walked the streets alone, discreetly hiding her face from passing strangers, though she was sure soon enough photos would surface of her earlier today and she would be swarmed.
As expected, no time passed before she was stopped by a woman and she did not try to suppress her eyeroll, though hidden behind her glasses.
Oh, excuse me — I just wanted to ask—what do you think of my haircut?
Surely this girl was not serious. She looked vaguely familiar, but Adelaide wrote it off as just “one of those faces.” As she regarded the girl, it was painfully obvious that she was anxious for approval. The desperation seeped from her like wax from a candle. Unsurprisingly, the Princess had a fair amount of run-ins with these types, and she could recognize them from a kilometer away. It was a level of insecurity Adelaide herself was entirely unfamiliar with, and she found such self-doubt repulsive.
Lowering her glasses to reveal her identity, Adelaide pretended to truly consider the inquiry. Whatever words she relayed to her now would likely determine the rest of the girl’s day; not that this could persuade the Princess to mince her words.
“Quite honestly, you resemble a poodle striving to be edgy.”
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