Let me tell you about the year I started wearing a tiara.
In 2015, Darling Daughter and I spent the Fourth of July at Disneyland because, for her, it actually is one of the happiest places on earth. For me, not so much; but if she’s happy, I’m happy, so it’s a win-win.
While we were there, we happened upon this little shop full of princess paraphernalia. There are a couple of different ways this essay could go from here.
I could talk about the fact that I did not see any outfits for princes in the shop and go on some long tirade of misogyny, which, would totally fit into my not-so-high-opinion of Disney, a company whose films are all-too-often about a young girl whose primary currency is her looks, something that makes her the envy of every man’s eye and the much-loathed rival of every other young girl who could have been her BFF. The mother of said pretty girl is usually dead and the bulk of the film is spent with either her evil, jealous stepmother trying to cast a bad spell on her, send her away, turn into the house-help; or, her father trying to marry her off to the first good-looking guy on a horse in hopes that he’s a prince.
But you know what? I’ll give them the benefit of doubt. There may well have been a shop full of prince paraphernalia that I could have altogether missed. Besides, let’s return to the princess shop, where there were like rows and rows of glittery items. I rather like the idea of diamonds, so I’m fond of all those little stones that pretend to be them—cut glass, crystal, cubic zirconium; if it sparkles brightly enough, then DeBeers be damned; no one has to die.
Darling Daughter and I walked out of the shop with a few tiaras.
What I really want to tell you about is what happened after we left the princess shop. We decided to get something to eat. We were at a restaurant waiting to be helped, standing idly by, as one does when there are a dozen empty tables but the sign insists that you must be seated by an employee.
Darling Daughter, a woman after my own heart, was serving Disneyland a little t-shirt ‘tude. It was blue and sleeveless with “I solemnly swear that I will smash the patriarchy” written on its front.
Belle, the princess from Beauty and the Beast was walking in front of the restaurant. She saw Darling Daughter’s shirt so she came in to speak with her.
“What does that mean?”, she asked. Her voice was small, pubescent, singsong, almost identical to that of Belle’s in the movie. She was pointing at Darling Daughter’s shirt.
“It’s based on a saying from Harry Potter,” Darling Daughter responded.
“Oh,” Belle nodded. “I’ve heard of Harry Potter but I’ve not read it because we don’t get modern books in my library. What is a patriarchy?”
Darling Daughter started explaining. I looked around to see if we were on some sort of hidden camera filming us for some kind of “gotcha” program.
Belle, who never once fell out of character, listened, asking a few more questions here and there about the patriarchy and why there is a need to smash it. And then, her curiosity satisfied, they embraced, took a photo together and we were seated for our meal.
It remains one of the most bizarre conversations I’ve ever listened in on.
When we bought the tiaras, I thought we might wear them for Halloween or some other event for which a costume was required.
Then one ordinary day, Darling Daughter came by to visit me, and she was wearing her tiara. I asked where she’d been, she said she’d been nowhere in particular.
I asked where she was going, she said she was on her way home.
“Then why come the tiara?” I wanted to know.
“Because I just felt like wearing it,” she explained. “It makes me feel special.”
“What a wonderful thing to do,” I said, but really I was thinking, Yeah, that’s all kinds of fabulous. I’m gonna start doing it. And that was that.
Several weeks later while getting dressed, I spotted my tiara, sitting on a shelf in my closet. I walked over and picked it up. I put it on my head, threw on some dangling cubic zirconia earring, and painted on a lovely fire-engine-red lip, then out into the world I went to run my errands.
Admittedly, a few people looked at me as though I were a single sparkling wand away from the rubber room. But I simply stared back at them with a look that begged to know, “Who stole your belief in magic, Boo?”
The teller at my bank smiled while he slapped the crisp bills from my withdrawal, one after the other, in my hand.
“Girl, you better work it,” he said, handing me my receipt.
The man bagging my groceries called me Queen, as did my barista, when she called out my name to get my latte.
Darling Daughter was right; wearing the tiara did make me feel special.
“Of course, it did,” one of my girlfriends said. “You’re a drama queen.”
“Oh, so like you’re going to be a dream-killer now?”
“See what I mean? Drama queen.” We both laughed. It was that kind of friendship.
Maybe I should have felt offended by being described as a “drama queen,” but I didn’t. I’ve made peace with all the names that people use to dismiss those of us who won’t settle for the mundane, the ordinary.
A couple of years later, when I checked into the out-patient clinic for my hysterectomy, I was wearing my tiara. By then, I’d become old hat.
“Seriously?” my gynecologist asked. “We’re about to perform surgery. That thing is sharp and pointy. Someone could get hurt.” Disappointed, I took the tiara off and handed it to Darling Daughter, who would be waiting for me post-op.
In the Operating Room, I asked my gyn if he would videotape the procedure. I handed him my cell phone and told him the password to unlock it.
“Why would somebody want to watch a video of a surgery?” Clearly, he didn’t have Cable and he wasn’t on social media. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that people watch other people pop their pimples on video. He said he wouldn’t record the procedure.
“Will you take still photographs?”
“Absolutely not,” he said, and asked the anesthesiologist to hurry up and put me out.
“Do you think I’m a drama queen?” I asked my gyn.
He’s known me since I was in my 20s. He helped me deliver Darling Daughter.
“Yes,” he said, right away. “Who else comes into surgery in full-make up and wearing a tiara.”
“I think it’s kind of endearing,” the anesthesiologist said.
“Don’t encourage her,” my gyn said. That’s all I can remember.
When I woke up, Darling Daughter was by my bedside.
“Hi,” I moaned. Still under the influence of some drug, I was speaking, limp-tongued and slurred, from a place of clouds, rainbows, unicorns and princesses.
“Please hand me my tiara and my lip gloss,” I asked Darling Daughter.
Yes, those were my first words post-surgery.
I live for the extraordinary. I live for any opportunity to dance when no music is playing, to wear long gloves and use lorgnettes, or to walk regally through city streets with a 20-dollar tiara from Disneyland atop my head.
If that’s dramatic, then so be it.
“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” -- Émile Zola
Post-script: Even though my gyn said he wouldn’t, he took the photos of my surgery, after all. (she smiles coquettishly)
So Apparently, I'm Dramatic
Oh I love love LOVE this! Maybe I'll wear my tiara soon! <3