In what is by far my favorite descriptor, next to the name âSarah,â it simply says: âDated Leo.â Enough said. I clearly wasnât going to forget her.
When I wasnât making notes about the models, I was handling pictures of their perfectly proportioned faces. Francine wasnât kidding about the scanning; my newly acquired skill took up a large part of my workday. Back then, model agencies re-touched photographs the old fashioned way: someone actually painted over imperfections on large matte photographs, concealing under-eye circles and flyaway hairs. After that, it was my job to scan the now-flawless image back into the computer. We also took Polaroids the old-fashioned way, meaning we took real Polaroids. (They still call it âtaking Polaroids,â but they take the pictures with a digital camera.) Iâd ask a girl to come in âwith clean hair and faceâ and have her pose next to a window. If a client needed swimsuit Polaroids, there was a spare bikini in the bathroom. Like the woman at Lucky , I instructed the girls to look right, look left, face forward, smile.
Doing this, of course, reminded me of that day at Lucky and of my circuitous route into the modeling agent world. Although I had absolutely no interest in moving up in this industry, I had somehow stayed for almost two years.
The Polaroids required scanning as well. Iâd tape four Polaroids to a piece of 8 x 11 printer paper and write the modelâs name and height across the bottom of the page with a Sharpie. Then, hunched over the scanner, Iâd upload the images. I did this over and over, all day long, which was both incredibly monotonous and crushingly depressing. I wasnât depressed because I wasnât a model, though I often coveted their wasp-like waists and angular faces (my cheekbones had vanished months before). I just wanted to do something with my life that I had even a vague interest in. If I wasnât tracking down a modelâs UGGs in some wardrobe trailer, I was booking their hair appointments at Frédéric Fekkai, making their travel arrangements for a swimwear shoot in Bora Bora, or dictating directions to a famous directorâs house in the Pacific Palisades. My job was a relentless reminder that, while I was very busymaking other girlsâ lives more fabulousâgirls who were my exact same age, no lessâmy life was standing still.
I knew my last day at the agency was inevitable when I returned from lunch one afternoon to find the final straw on my desk. It was in the form of a Post-it note, stuck to my computer screen. I peeled it from the monitor while hooking my purse to the back of my chair. I remained standing while I read it, trying to process the implications: âMorgan H. needs a bikini wax.â This must be some sort of inside joke , I thought. Maybe I accidentally snapped an unfortunate Polaroid of Morgan H. revealing an unkempt nether region?
âDave, did you write this?â I asked.
Dave responded, not looking up from his computer, âShe said Tuesday or Wednesday after ten would be good.â
âIâm sorry, I am supposed to schedule her bikini wax?â I asked.
âYeah,â Dave answered, unfazed. âShe needs it done before the Quicksilver shoot.â
I sat down at my desk and laid my forehead on top of my keyboard until it started to beep. This was too much. While it was one thing to schedule haircuts and highlights for these girls, it was quite another to make appointments for the removal of their pubic hair. I had to get out. While I loved my colleagues, this job was slowly but surely killing my soul.
It was already easy enough to become invisible in LA, spending most of my time behind the windshield of my car with fast food on my lap. While I wouldnât be caught dead walking down Madison Avenue with a milkshake in hand, I had absolutely no problem driving down Wilshire Boulevard, sucking an Oreo McFlurry
When I wasnât making notes about the models, I was handling pictures of their perfectly proportioned faces. Francine wasnât kidding about the scanning; my newly acquired skill took up a large part of my workday. Back then, model agencies re-touched photographs the old fashioned way: someone actually painted over imperfections on large matte photographs, concealing under-eye circles and flyaway hairs. After that, it was my job to scan the now-flawless image back into the computer. We also took Polaroids the old-fashioned way, meaning we took real Polaroids. (They still call it âtaking Polaroids,â but they take the pictures with a digital camera.) Iâd ask a girl to come in âwith clean hair and faceâ and have her pose next to a window. If a client needed swimsuit Polaroids, there was a spare bikini in the bathroom. Like the woman at Lucky , I instructed the girls to look right, look left, face forward, smile.
Doing this, of course, reminded me of that day at Lucky and of my circuitous route into the modeling agent world. Although I had absolutely no interest in moving up in this industry, I had somehow stayed for almost two years.
The Polaroids required scanning as well. Iâd tape four Polaroids to a piece of 8 x 11 printer paper and write the modelâs name and height across the bottom of the page with a Sharpie. Then, hunched over the scanner, Iâd upload the images. I did this over and over, all day long, which was both incredibly monotonous and crushingly depressing. I wasnât depressed because I wasnât a model, though I often coveted their wasp-like waists and angular faces (my cheekbones had vanished months before). I just wanted to do something with my life that I had even a vague interest in. If I wasnât tracking down a modelâs UGGs in some wardrobe trailer, I was booking their hair appointments at Frédéric Fekkai, making their travel arrangements for a swimwear shoot in Bora Bora, or dictating directions to a famous directorâs house in the Pacific Palisades. My job was a relentless reminder that, while I was very busymaking other girlsâ lives more fabulousâgirls who were my exact same age, no lessâmy life was standing still.
I knew my last day at the agency was inevitable when I returned from lunch one afternoon to find the final straw on my desk. It was in the form of a Post-it note, stuck to my computer screen. I peeled it from the monitor while hooking my purse to the back of my chair. I remained standing while I read it, trying to process the implications: âMorgan H. needs a bikini wax.â This must be some sort of inside joke , I thought. Maybe I accidentally snapped an unfortunate Polaroid of Morgan H. revealing an unkempt nether region?
âDave, did you write this?â I asked.
Dave responded, not looking up from his computer, âShe said Tuesday or Wednesday after ten would be good.â
âIâm sorry, I am supposed to schedule her bikini wax?â I asked.
âYeah,â Dave answered, unfazed. âShe needs it done before the Quicksilver shoot.â
I sat down at my desk and laid my forehead on top of my keyboard until it started to beep. This was too much. While it was one thing to schedule haircuts and highlights for these girls, it was quite another to make appointments for the removal of their pubic hair. I had to get out. While I loved my colleagues, this job was slowly but surely killing my soul.
It was already easy enough to become invisible in LA, spending most of my time behind the windshield of my car with fast food on my lap. While I wouldnât be caught dead walking down Madison Avenue with a milkshake in hand, I had absolutely no problem driving down Wilshire Boulevard, sucking an Oreo McFlurry
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