I sit in my car on the red light, dreading this moment. Didn’t have anything for breakfast and last night I stuck my fingers down my throat after dinner, to keep the ‘figure’ the clients want. I have a spiking headache. I walk in, the room full with photographers, lighting professionals, clients, more models, and myself.
I dump my bag full of high heels down, take a deep breath and hunch my back over, standing in the corner of the room waiting for my turn to get done up for the photoshoot. I pull my frizzy, knotty hair up in a messy bun, drag my baggy hoodie over my head and wait. My face is dry, red and acne raised. I run my hands down my face and it feels like bubble wrap, I have bags under my eyes from my lack of sleep, they are like plump mushrooms sagging down under my lifeless eyes. I have 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 through my facebook feed.
I’m craving that scrumptious, greasy, double cheese burger on the old wooden billboard I can see outside the window, 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 continue to 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 magazine, the me that everyone thinks is the ‘real me’. I look beautiful, my jawline, contour, highlights, no imperfections. No more dry, red, acne raised face. My hair waves down my back like the 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 and they slip black lace heels on my nicely pedicured feet. I slowly stand up, 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 and move your index finger back, please 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 five years ago, it’s like I’m a child again. I have my shoulders rolled back my posture perfect and sucking my gut in. I swear they’ve taken more than ten thousand photos, sure they have the one. But no, still more demanding, standing there feeling beautiful and being ‘the one’ that they 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 crank up my good vibes music and head back to my scrubby apartment with a grin. I am ready to eat a decent meal. I’m exhausted.