I Think I Knew That Model

Chapter One: Natalia

Walking in the concrete jungle might intimidate most, but to me, it's the only place I feel like I belong in. The rich smell of diversity wafts through the air, and a light breeze carries it through the streets, intertwined with a sense of sophistication. Although, in this case, sophistication is not fully interchangeable with glamour. But thankfully, credit cards are interchangeable with bags of designer clothes. 

Hi. I'm Natalia, and I'm a model. Don't worry, I'm not anorexic, I'm not an air-head, and so far, I don't think I've been acting very stuck up. I've always been afraid that this whole modelling career thing would fall flat on its face, but so far it hasn't. Is this the work of luck or skill? I really don't know. At least I have my  Master's Degree standing behind me, patiently waiting to catch me if I ever fall. 

My days usually consist of salad, energy bars, water, treadmills, bicycles, and jogs around Central Park. I mean all the way around. It's a very delicate "lifestyle routine" that hasn't hurt or failed me at all. I get some fruit shakes and frozen yogurt in there too. Really, it's a lot better than the days I would eat McDonalds every single day, when my career was down in the dumps, and when school was throwing all kinds of curveballs at me. My insides literally feel cleaner.

I don't have an alarm to wake me up at 8 in a morning. I do however, have the most aggravating manager in the entire world. 

My manager wears more Prada than me, which is starting to get scarier with each passing day. Every time he goes clomping into my dressing room with his noisy dress shoes, shivers go down my spine. I swear he was a lizard in a past life. A slimy, flamboyant, toothy lizard. Or maybe that’s my herpetaphobia acting up again. Anyway, he scares the shit out of me, both in the way he looks, and in how scary good he is at getting his way. It’s like he’s a pre-pubescent girl inhabiting the body of a 40 something year old man. It’s almost impossible to have a normal conversation with him without him whipping out a bunch of catty metaphors that make him sound extremely pretentious. However, when I use the word pretentious, that’s kind of making me sound pretentious. And now you’re thinking that I sound really pretentious, but I just think you sound pretentious for using the word pretentious. And so the cycle goes on.  

“Oh Nattyyyyy!” Oh, and I forgot to mention. The way he talks is so goddamn obnoxious, I’d rather listen to the sound of a man being brutally murdered with a chainsaw. Or Nickelback, whichever one goes on longer. I turn around in my spinny chair. I just love it.

“Griffin dearest? Could you please not call me Natty? It makes me sound like an irritating little bug. Thanks.”

“And your point is?” Oh, fuck him right in half.

“Hah, funny. Really now, my stomach. Dear God, you’re too much.”

“No more of your sarcasm Natalia. This photo shoot is important you hear me? Important. This could be your big break. Or at least a ticket to your big break.”

“You said that about the last 3 photo shoots Griffin. It would just fabulous if for once in your life you could stop being so redundant.”

“And yet you claim I’m the one who always catty. Sweetie, what you’re being now is just downright malicious.”

“I tell it like it is. Cry me a river and get over yourself.”

“Really now, could you be a bigger pessimist?" 

“Yeah, I’m just an oh so cynical bitch, and you’re a harp playing saint sent straight from Heaven. Jesus Christ!”

“Aren’t you being a little sacrilegious right now?”

“Oh there you go, hiding behind a smokescreen of bourgeois clichés. Did I go around claiming that you’re a bigot when you refused to eat at that Chinese joint down the street?”

“That’s a completely different thing! Chinese food upsets my stomach.”

“Oh nooooes. Poor Griffy. His life is just oh so difficult. EVERY SINGLE DAY IS A PUNCH TO THE GUT! MAKE IT STOOOP!” I raised my hands in mock-agony.

“Okay, now you’re just being immature. Aren’t you a little too old for this?”

“Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is optional.”

“Ah yes. More wise words from the Dali Lama.”

“That’s a Chili Davis quote, you ignorant douche.”

“Okay that’s it; I’ve had it up to here with your behaviour. I can have you fired.” I narrowed my eyes at him. He’s used that threat at least once a week. Once again, redundant. I sighed.

“Okay Griffin. I’m sorry.” I forced a smile. A sinister grin crept onto his face.

“That’s what I like to here. Now, the crew will be here soon, so-“ As if on cue, 3 ladies and 3 men made their way into the room in a single file line, as they did every day. Griffin ducked out to talk to the photographer while the team worked their magic.

The head of the team was Rachelle. Rachelle didn’t really do anything to me, except watch the whole thing, make sure everyone was doing the right thing, and checked me over when they were done. Peter is the eye makeup specialist. Today I was modeling for a new line of tropical smelling deodorant, and he was having a field day on face. The only colours I saw were an amber yellow, a forest green, a Persian blue, and a bronze colour. I have no idea how he managed to make all those colours look good together. He deserves bigger and better things than a girl who’s only been featured in 5 magazines. Mind you, not all at the same time.  

Diane is in charge of my actual face, concealing imperfections, highlighting key features, things like that. Andre is in charge of grooming my hair, on my head, and on my face. Those two monsters that sit above my eyes need serious attention. And he’s the only person I can trust to properly thread them. I’ve never waxed or tweezed them before. Margaret is on fingernail/toenail duty, fixing, treating, clipping, painting, yadda yadda yadda. Richard is my personal trainer. Basically he sets up exercises and plans for me, and keeps track of what I've eaten, how much I eat, etc. He's usually there to instruct me and asist me when I'm working out in the gym. He's really important, because I was really lazy in high school, and I've spent the last 2 years becoming a lot more healthy and fit with him right by my side. Between you and me, he's my favourite. 

 Finally, after being beautified and shoved into a sparkly, flashy, out of this world little number, Rachelle looked me over. The look on her face while studying me was the same as always: vague. She observes my face, (olive skin, big brown eyes, jet black hair, big lips, and pearly whites), look over my body, inspect every little detail. Then, a huge grin comes across her face, and she says, “Perfect! Let’s go everyone!” And on we’d march. And I’d have that word stuck in my head all day.

Perfect.

Something about that word just irritates me. I knew becoming a model would be all about being perfect (and not everyone would think that about me, as I’ve learned from many, many personal experiences,) but I would always wonder: is perfect even an achievable goal? Is it even real?

 But enough of that. Because now it’s show time. Sort of. I was about to go make deodorant look as glamorous as possible.