Model Behavior: Part 1

“Anyone can be a model!” -Kendall Jenner, probably

On a few separate occasions, I was scouted to be a model. Well, at least, that’s what I was told; it’s tough to say whether the randoms who approached me in London were actually looking for fresh talent or just another clueless American for their kidnapping ploy.

Either way, my dad hadn’t quite mastered the Taken monologue yet (“I have a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career…”), so I felt that the risk outweighed the reward. Fast forward to the weeks following graduation and I was somehow employed but with a start date scheduled for mid-August. I had crammed my summer with frequent trips: constantly revisiting San Diego, seeing family back home, thirdwheeling my parents in Vegas (don’t ask), and settling into my new crib in the LBC. Yet I still found myself straddled with free time.

On a random Tuesday afternoon, my roommate, Jules, proposed I become a model, probably because there was nothing good on TV that day. Together we assembled a portfolio with shots of me prancing around the beach and on various neighborhood streets trying not to get hit by cars (now that I was about to embark on a glamorous journey of prestige, I couldn’t afford to damage my money maker).

The next day, I googled “Top LA Modeling Agencies” and landed on one with an open casting call that week. I had binge-watched the first couple of seasons of America’s Next Top Model and felt that was the only real preparation I needed. Regardless of the fact that countless people have said I’m far more attractive in real life than in pictures (ouch?), Tyra taught me how to smize, so by God, how could I not be model material?

I showed up to the agency and filled out countless forms in their waiting room, surrounded by at least six or seven other hopefuls. Full disclosure: I was the fattest one in the room. As a size 2, I found this somewhat concerning, but the others all seemed young and probably weren’t familiar with the joys of bottomless mimosas or Speculoos Cookie Butter yet, so it was only a matter of time before they learned that, actually, there are many things in life that taste as good as skinny feels.

One by one, the girls were summoned to a room across the hall, and one by one, they exited after a few minutes with heads bent low. Considering my eyes are closed in a good 90% of pictures and I had only learned the term “skinny arm” last Thursday, there was absolutely no hope for yours truly.

Nevertheless, lack of any sort of credibility didn’t deter me from sticking around until it was my turn. I had already emailed one of the casting directors my “portfolio” (it should be noted that my competition all brought professionally bound books of what I presume were equally professional photos; I had a handful of pictures Jules took of me running around in skinny jeans stuffed in a folder – see above), which might explain why the first thing he said was: “Oh, honey. You are so much cuter in person.”

I probably shouldn’t have been confused, but I was.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “My photos aren’t good?”

Fun modeling fact: when one typically creates a portfolio, they use someone with… you know, actual photography experience. ‘My roommate’s Insta selfies have always been rather flattering’ doesn’t quite cut it.

My world was rocked once again when the truth bomb was dropped that, if I were to model, my face wouldn’t be plastered on Burberry ads next to that girl with the really aggressive eyebrows (you know the one). I had described my life’s dream of promoting overpriced perfume for designer brands, otherwise known as high-fashion modeling. The casting director then tried to explain in the least sassy way possible that that shit was never gonna happen.

“You have the perfect commercial look. You know, for hair, makeup ads; you’re very feminine,” he explained, obviously unaware of the fact I practiced Krav Maga.

Jules later insisted this was a compliment; commercial models are supposed to be conventionally attractive, whereas high-fashion ones aren’t meant to be seen broad daylight. It was his way of saying I didn’t resemble a Picasso painting come to life, to which I respectfully disagree. If only he had seen photos of me from Coachella ’12 after I stayed up for three days straight and my eyes were all sunken in – I was tres high fashion then.

Anyway, despite this divergence in opinion, we chatted for a good ten minutes and he asked if I would be interested in meeting with an agent. This came as quite the plot twist because a) none of the other Tyras-in-training had reached this stage and b) it’s me we’re talking about here. But nonetheless, I followed him to one of the back offices where I was introduced to a trendy-looking lady. (If you’re wondering, the casting director had bleach blonde hair and tattoo sleeves. The agent was decked out in jewelry and designer duds. They were both wearing all black. Naturally.)

It all went by pretty fast: they pitched a few ideas to see how far I was willing to commit, I asked a few questions back, and they offered me a contract. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say the modeling world probably doesn’t usually operate like that, where you’re offered a gig at your very first casting call from an established agency… especially when your portfolio looks like it’s straight out of a discontinued Wet Seal catalog. My only explanation is that I was probably reeking of desperation that day (postgrad life does that to you) and they most likely assumed I could be persuaded into doing the really freaky nude ads no one else would agree to.

But I wasn’t about to sign on the dotted line quite yet. There were a lot of details I needed to address, and they seemed unprepared to answer all of my legal questions and the fact that I was actually literate to begin with. So instead they suggested I attend this casting call for a photoshoot later that week to see if it felt right. I already knew that would make the perfect investigative journalism piece for my blog, so I enthusiastically agreed and jotted down the details.

Look out world, I was about to become a Chanel-wearing, catwalk-strutting Walter Cronkite!