Top Model

...and now, for my experience as a Top Model.

Let's start from the end. It was fabulous. For an excruciating 6 hours of impress clackety, balls of nerves, and enough estrogen to take over our current administration, it was worth every minute. Anyone who says being beautiful isn't difficult is probably not beautiful. Don't get me wrong, nothing is more important than to believe in your own beauty, whatever that may be. For some, understandably, beauty really is only skin deep.

All of my co-models were carefully groomed bombshells with craftfully sculpted legs, smooth skin, sexy shoulders, manicured hands and feet, flawless make-up, and perfect hair. But to ask them to pass the lipstick is a daunting task that seems to toss that beautiful blonde hair from one side to the other in a comically lost and distanced way, obviously confused. Let me just say: being only beautiful is difficult.

Arriving late, I made a fashionable entrance with dark hipster jeans and an ugly, khaki, blue and red plaid shirt I got from a farm sale in Iowa. This style was skillfully worn with Jesus sandals, a patent bright red purse, and a knitted and billed khaki hat. My hair was dyed the day before, a deeper dark than my original color, with a band of red on the crown and a slight streak of butter blonde in the front. This seems like a dramatic change since I just went platinum a month ago, but all for beauty, right? I don't really look like myself, even in a metro-Midwestern way, the new 'do and deeply darkened skin. This event has taken a lot preparation, even prior to today.

Something about me you probably already know: The first time people meet me, they generally don't like me. I know, how could someone not like you when they don't even know you? Good question, but it's true. Generally, this doesn't bother me because I can at least be myself- which sometimes isn't such a good idea the first meeting, either- BUT- this time, I am meeting a new society of humans, and naturally don't feel like I belong. So how do I combat this insecurity? I watch and listen.

The listening part didn't really take much. It consisted of, "Ooooh, pretty!", and "What do you think about my hair?", and "LOOK AT MY BOOBS!" . By the completion of the first hour, I pretty much had it down.

Which made conversation easy. "Thank you", and "It's beautiful!", and "Those look AWESOME!!!".

I'm sure it was probably the culmination of raw emotion, excitement mixed with fear, that made these ladies seem so simplistic. Yeah.

So- it's time to do my make-up. When I climbed into the chair I noticed the slightly sloopy eyes of my personal artist, who I promtly found out has been doing makeover for the majority of 8 hours. Noticing everyone was starting to look strikingly the same, I told her I wanted to be "different." My attitude for the entire event was, "I may not be the smallest, or the prettiest, but I want to be the best!" (Thank you SNL.) She seemed to like this motto, and so we decided to make me "different looking"- which isn't all that hard anyway.

My hair was done by this point, and the hair designer did a beautiful job transforming what little hair I now have to a 20's style finger wave. So to stay with the theme, we went light on the eyes, heavy on the liner, blush, blush, and... red lipstick! At the very end, my own nerves were amping and I picked out a feathered pair of eyelashes. "And these..." I said. "Oh, yeah, this is going to be great."

My final look was capped with luscious inch-long, thick and feathered eyelids. I honestly felt as if I could take off with these babies. They were hot (and very bird-like). I was finished and now for the show.

The "dressing" room is a curtained-off, quarter portion of a small dance floor, off the veranda where the red carpet was and people were beginning to gather. Behind the curtain is to fit 15-20 women, dressed anywhere from scantally clad, to topless, to butt-ass naked. This extreme body exposure is in the middle of failing lace, sharply pointed shoes, nipple covers, panty-hose, thongs, jewelry, and perfume. Needless to say, I stayed out of there as much as possible. All of this is also in the doorway of the supply closet where the cooks were regularly entering for more fried food or utensils, so I actually started helping them, since they weren't allowed most of the time.

FINALLY, the show begins. I am wearing an absolutely amazing dress from BCBG (I'm not sure what that means), that could resemble the vintage white gown of Marilyn Monroe. This dress is a halter, tea-stained, lace draped beauty. Anyone wearing this gown is going to be an elegant star of the evening. A high, thick black band surrounds the waist where the ribbed skirt flows about 3/4 length. This dress is accentuated by severely pointed, black patent leather shoes, 4" high. Good on me for practicing in them the day before. These may be the most damn sexy pair of shoes my feet have ever worn.

I'm in the back-half of the first line. The girls are making cutesy poises in the clown-hall mirror, which does nothing for a figure, but lots to corrupt any sort of image you may have of yourself. They are practicing their turns, and flipping their hair, blowing pretend kisses. I'm just ready for a shot, but feel myself reapplying lipstick, taking a few seductive steps myself, spinning, and desperately wishing my small breasts could produce just a little cleavage. No luck- still.

So there I walked. Onto the stage. I have no idea what was going on around me. I was zoned. The theme was 007, and it was a lot like a slowed image on film, where the sound dies out, and people are gaying laughing, and gesturing, and drinking, as if time had suddenly slowed to the pace of glue. I knew the dress was stunning and the shoes were amazing. My hair and make-up were glam. No one was looking at me. They were looking at these products and application. I was merely the automobile for these items to shine.

I didn't fall, and the MC actually commented on how difficult it was to actually perform in these shoes, which garnered another (in my opinion) well-deserved round of appaluse. Throughout the walk, 007 men were poised as stopping points where we were to stop and "do something." I supposed this was model talk, for lack of a director's ability to communicate orders. Improv is not my best color anyway... especially when "Dressed to Kill." I'd rather just keep on walking straight. Anything else at this point gets complicated.

Alas, I made it through my eight stops and back up to the stage. I only wanted to finish with the infamous MM pose, but realized my turn was over, and now it was another's to shine. I was instantly addicted to the energy, the attention. I didn't realize it until it was over. Time for round 2!

In the second round, I wore jeans very similar to the ones described earlier, a dusted olive cami and LAMB jacket (I'm not sure what that means, either). The jacket was vintage as well in the same olive color, dark, narrow stripes, eight large, metal buttons, and a belt made from the same material tied high around the waist. I needed a pair of sunglasses, the huge, 007 kind, but the lashes would have none of it. To accentuate, a pink and turquoise eclectic, double wrapped necklace hung from my neck. The outfit was walked out on a pair of snakeskin boots. I like this outfit, but wanted to put my dress back on.

I was second on this round, and was able to have a little more fun with the walk this time. No 4'inchers or lack of cleavage. This was just a groovy chick with some kind of vintage opinionated style. We stayed in our final outfits for one more round. By this time, I have had it with being beautiful. I just wanted to be myself and celebrate my cool hair and ridiculous eyelashes.

The 1st Annual SoNo Fashion Show has been completed. I made it through the grueling task of beauty with 20 other women I hardly knew. Being amongst "The Beautiful People" (as I like to call them) was an incredible experience. While I have spent most of this post making fun of the models, they did teach me a few things:

1. I am beautiful with no make-up.
2. Sex may sell, but class is remembered.
3. and eating is okay.

Unfortunately, I have no pictures of the event, yet. Hopefully, someone out there has these images of how I looked. I wish I had video to believe it really happened. If I do, I'll be sure to post.

Until then, if you see me on the street, I'd be happy to sign you an autograph, dah-ling.