Ending Princess’ Reign Was A Treat

I was never a fairy princess. I never wanted to be a fairy princess. All I ever wanted to do was vanquish the fairy princess.

And one Halloween, I did.

Long before I knew about spirits of the newly dead going door-to-door and other pagan beliefs of Halloween, I was a little girl who looked forward to collecting candy, carving pumpkins and dressing up.

The only thing I didn’t like about Halloween was the fairy princess, who each year would win the class prize for “Most Beautiful” costume.

Usually, she was my best friend, “Cathy.”

Up until the third grade, it didn’t bother me. I happily, and shyly, played the obligatory Dutch girl with authentic wooden shoes and other benign non-princess characters for Halloween.

Although I admired the princess who detected a pea beneath a stack of mattresses, the ones just on the make for Prince Charming - like Cinderella - didn’t appeal to me.

This was partly because I freely roamed the kingdom of children’s make-believe, having endless adventures, without the King or Queen looking over my shoulder. But, also, because I had a real-life princess with whom to contend, one with curls, freckles on her nose and a dainty step. Cathy.

Worse, she was also a ballerina.

I had copped out of ballet in kindergarten. One day, after being thoroughly humiliated by my balletic ineptness, I informed my mother, “I’m not going back.”

And I didn’t.

Failure came early.

But each year, I attended Cathy’s recital, enduring the cute tap dances, pink fluff, the ocean of freckles and curls, and Cathy’s mother’s fawning.

No one in my family fawned.

Then at age 8 - the age of logic, say psychologists - I took a good look at the fairy princess lifestyle and started asking questions.

Why was it, I asked, Cathy’s mother was always taking Cathy’s side in our spats without investigating my side first? And why did she bring my mother into it? Why was Cathy’s mother doing her daughter’s bidding, even retelling Cathy’s fibs? And why was Cathy tattling to her mother?

The injustice stung me, and I didn’t even know what injustice was.

Besides all that, what was the point in having a bedroom full of can’t-touch antiques, bare walls and a walk-in closet, like Cathy had? And who wanted to wear doll-baby dresses that couldn’t be dirtied? And have a dog that couldn’t come into the house?

But even as I began to separate myself from Cathy, I still wanted to be “Most Beautiful.” I had taken a bite of the poison apple of little-girl fairy princessdom and I couldn’t spit it out. Though I tried - at Halloween.

One year, I was a Gypsy. The next year, I transformed myself into a witch. Another year, I was a beatnik. But my crowning glory was an original creation: the “Slob.”

For the “Slob,” I borrowed an old pink gingham housedress of my Mom’s and my Dad’s beat-up black tennis shoes, and braided my then-straight “dirty blonde” - that’s what people called it - hair all over. I looked like a cross between Bozo the Clown and Pippi Longstocking.

Not surprisingly, I wasn’t selected “Most Beautiful.”

So, as my last shot - in the sixth grade - neared, and my body and mind were going wacko with hormonal fireworks, I hit on an idea. An idea, I thought, that could put me over the top and bury all those memories of tutu demoralizing recitals.

I assembled my costume: fishnet stockings, high heels, miniskirt, tight blouse, heavy makeup.

At last, I had found a way to beat all the fairy princesses like Cathy. I became, voila, the “Vamp.”

And I sure did.

The boys in my class went gaga. I won “Most Beautiful” in a landslide. It was, shall I say, an illuminating moment.

No sooner had the curse of the fairy princess - which can last a lifetime - lifted, than Frederick’s of Hollywood came calling. Once again, logic begged: How in the world had the fairy princess ever gotten star billing? This was great!

My mother never said a word about any of my identity-searching costumes. She always believed I knew what I was doing. Which means she was either a genius or an expert in denial.

And Cathy? Well, she went on to become a thin, aloof cheerleader and then a professional dancer. We lost touch in junior high.

I finally saw her again 10 years ago at her father’s funeral, when she wondered at how “coiffed” I appeared. Stunning for me, the rest of her family couldn’t wait to find out “what had become of Ann.”

Halloween. I just love it. A time for exorcising (or exercising) demons. Trick-or-treat.

xxxx