The (Not So) Perfect Princess

I get criticism for dinner

Author's Note: Sorry it's so long o.O

“Ouch!” I yelped as Mrs. Bolshire stabbed a comb into my hair. “Ow! Are you done yet!?”

“No.” Mrs. Bolshire replied humorlessly as she thrust the emerald-encrusted comb deeper into my thick hair. “Now hush up and sit still, or you’ll get your hair tangled and force me to re-do it.”

I sat still after that. I didn’t think I could survive another of her hair-ripping, corset-tightening, shoe-pinching beauty sessions.

Another five minutes had passed until finally, finally Mrs. Bolshire stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“Now you look like a real princess.” She said gruffly, her icy blue eyes going up and down me, scanning every little detail to make sure I looked perfect. That was Mrs. Bolshire’s job: making me look perfect. She was my governess, after all. My parents hired her to train me to act like a princess, talk like a princess, think like a princess, and most importantly, look like a princess. The most powerful Kingdom in the nation couldn’t have their princess dressing like a boy and acting like a wild-child, now could they? I’d already gone through five other governesses, and even one team of tutors that covered all subjects, including etiquette. All of them had left within a month, saying I—a twelve year old girl—was too much to deal with. I silently celebrated every time one of them packed up their things. I hated them. All of them. If my parents really loved me, they wouldn’t care that I wasn’t the prim-and-proper princess everyone expected me to be. But then came Mrs. Bolshire, seemingly out of nowhere, bragging that she alone could tame their “beast of a daughter”. My parents were reluctant at first, thinking that I would wear out an old lady like her quickly. But Mrs. Bolshire only smiled, stared at me with her frosty blue eyes, and said, “We shall see.” I had glared daggers at her from my throne, not even caring what kind of looks I got from my parents. I hated her the second her old, withered self had come knocking on our door.

The first couple weeks, I was determined to prove her wrong, that she couldn’t “tame” me. I did everything possible to tick her off: “accidentally” rip my fancy dresses, eat like half-starved commoner, refuse to brush my hair, show up to every meal late, etc. I thought I was doing pretty good. Almost every day, Mrs. Bolshire would flush bright red and clench her fists, which probably meant she was barely holding herself back from strangling me. I’d only smirk and wait for it. Wait for her to scream at me, or throw something, or storm out of the room, or even hit me. But she never did. Every time, Mrs. Bolshire would take a deep breath, and continue with whatever lesson we were going through. And it made me even madder.

Months passed, and Mrs. Bolshire was still my governess. My parents were impressed that she hadn’t had a nervous breakdown yet and raised her pay. This promotion, unfortunately for me, gave Mrs. Bolshire more assurance, that no matter how long it took, she would get me acting like a princess. After a year and a half had gone by, I was starting to get tired. Whenever I acted up, Mrs. Bolshire no longer got angry. Some days, she was so annoyingly calm that I would start screaming insults at her, trying to get her to get her fuming again, but she never did. She would only cross her arms and stare me down while I ranted. And when my steam ran out, Mrs. Bolshire would politely ask, “Are you finished now?”

Six months later, I was a polite, obedient, miserable fourteen year old. Mrs. Bolshire wasn’t leaving anytime soon, that was for sure.