I sit in my car on the red light dreading this moment. Didn’t have anything for breakfast, last night as I stuck my fingers down my throat after dinner to keep the ‘figure’ the clients wanted. I have a spiking headache and I walk in, the room full with photographers, lighting professionals, clients, more models, and myself.
I dumped my bag full of high heels down, took a deep breath and hunched my back over, standing in the corner of the room waiting for my turn to get done up for the photoshoot. I pulled my frizzy, knotty hair up in a messy bun, dragged my baggy hoodie over my head and waited. My face is dry, red and acne raised, when I run my hands down my face it’s as if I’m feeling bubble wrap, I have bags under my eyes from my lack of sleep, they are like plump mushrooms sagging down under my lifeless eyes. Nothing better to do than pick the old nail polish off my fingernails and flick it on the floor. I pull out my phone and start scrolling my facebook feed.
I’m craving that scrumptious looking double cheese burger on the old wood billboard I can see outside the window, as I’m standing here absolutely starving. I have my headphones in my ears, listening to slow depressing songs, trying to block out all the pain and discomfort I’m feeling right now. Sometimes I wonder why I still put myself through all this pain.
Everyone is surrounding me, the make up artists, the hairdressers and all their assistants. They spin my chair around, I glare at my ‘new self’, the ‘me’ that’s somewhat perfect, the me that everyone wants on the front page of their world famous fashion magazines, the me that everyone thinks is the real me. I look beautiful, my jawline, my contour, my highlights, no imperfections. No more dry, red, acne raised face. My hair waves down my back like the nice lake rippling along to the slight breeze.
They assist me over to the dressing room, sit me down gently and give me some carrot sticks to nibble on. The ladies put a nice slick, silk, tight skin fitted dress on me, they slip my black lacey heels on my nicely pedicured feet. I slowly stand up, and they carefully walk me over to the photographers where they have set up the dark backdrop and carefully laid out everything. It’s like being on a hollywood movie scene.
I stand in front of the camera, I feel classy and young. The photographers demanding me to look a certain way, look that way, no the other way, move your index finger back, don’t have your toes so clenched. The tiniest things they point out, I think it’s so ridiculous that they have to get it perfect. I have to look the way they want me to, so I do as im told; its like my mother yelling at me about 5 years ago, it’s like I’m a child again. I have my shoulders rolled back, posture perfect and sucking my gut in. I swear they’ve taken more than 10,000 photos, i’m sure they have the one. But no, still more demanding, standing there feeling beautiful and being the one that that picked me for, the one that got picked out of a crowd of young beautiful models with figures to die for. They wanted me.
Everyone is happy. They have the shot they wanted, the makeup was perfect, the hair, the dresswear, the lighting and all the discussion. No concerns what so ever, the client is happy. I feel good that they are happy, it’s like when I used to win my argument with my mother; it would make me feel on top of the world. Walking away back to my car feeling happy and refreshed; driving away, waving goodbye, I cranked up my good vibes music and was on my way back to my scrubby apartment with a grin and ready to eat a decent meal. I’m exhausted.