My life is fashion, yet I wear a version of the same old faded t-shirt, skirt and boots basically every day. I love shopping online and seeing the latest collections from Alexander Wang and Marc Jacobs. I picture myself in the clothes and feel like I would be a better person if I spend $1000 on a dress. $1000. One thousand dollars. For a dress. Yikes. I get paid to wear ridiculous creations from talented artists. I don’t mind it, but I will never understand it.
Fashion Week aka “pretty prison” in NYC is what designers live for, a 10 minute show of their latest garments parading down a runway on anorexic teens looking more like bags of antlers with scowls. The majority of the clothing is pinned in 20 places to compensate for the lack of body on the bodies they’re going on. The preparation for these shows is unbelievable. First a casting of over 100 girls that are narrowed down to 20, a fitting before the show, and then hair/makeup the day of the show. I’m shoved around to each station getting makeup put on by 3 different people and examined by the head makeup artist for flaws. “Her lashes need more mascara and the blush is too pink.” Does it really matter THAT MUCH? A whole can of hair spray is emptied into my hair (and lungs) to get the “just got out of bed” look that I came to the show with in the first place.
The conversations during shows are great, no really, thrilling. “Where are you from?” “Oh I lived in LA.” “I work at a salon in blah blah…” “Yeah the weather is great!” ENOUGH ABOUT THE FUCKING WEATHER! My mom calls me to talk about the weather. I don’t care. It’s shitty everywhere. Except LA apparently, but I don’t live there anymore so I could care less. Could we maybe talk about something with substance while you’re teasing my hair so it takes me 2 hours to brush it out when I get home? Could we at least talk about why Doc should’ve told Marty to bring back gasoline from the future on that note he left with Western Union, would’ve solved all sorts of problems if you ask me. Or why did Frank Lapidus remain in present-time and the other half of the plane end up in the past with 70’s Sawyer?
I’ve tried to enjoy modeling, really I have. I’m good at it, I get it. Just shut up and look pretty, don’t try to relate with anyone other than models because that’s as deep as your personality goes. I feel like I’m an anomaly in the modeling world, I tend to lie about my age just to not have to explain myself. I have conversations with 18 year olds about college and boys. They talk about “guys who are old enough to be my dad” hitting on them, which is hilarious to me because most guys I date are over 40.