Of Douchebags and Crus...or why I am NOT a model

I went to an audition yesterday.

I\’ll pause here to mention that it was no big deal, just more or less a cattle call, for some hair product company which I dare not name for fear of being sued. It was suggested by someone who no doubt had good intentions somewhere inside themselves that I audition and possibly act as a (paid) hair model for the day for some Stylist (Capital Letter Intended) from a galaxy far, far away. Said stylist and entourage I\’ve affectionately nicknamed Douchebag and Cru, much to my own personal amusement.

The models were told to arrive at the open call audition any time between 5 and 7 p.m. So yes, I arrived early, being the sort of person who will pop in early for any appointment because I cannot bear the thought of anyone waiting for me. Douchebag and Cru, however, were not slated to arrive until nearly 6 p.m. which the models were told after we\’d all arrived….all of us early. Douchebag was your garden-variety Snobby New York HipsterTM: slightly wrinkled designer jeans and white linen shirt, purposefully distressed leather jacked, grey-tinted sunglasses worn indoors after sunset, a scarf wrapped around the neck just casually enough, all topped off with a medium-length hairstyle, highlighted then unwashed to look unaffected replete with sideburns and a precisely trimmed goatee that belied the effort underneath the whole visage.

Is it a requirement for every man who calls himself a stylist to dress like that?

I realized, in a flash, that there was no way I was going to be selected for a number of reasons:
1) My hair is, to me, just nice the way it is, and Douchebag was a cutter. He asked every girl with long hair how much she was willing to lose. I just don\’t have the same dramatic possibility in length change.
2) Most of the others at the salon cattle call were the sort of Lincoln Park hipsters (I should have known that going in, based on the address alone). I am no hipster, by any stretch. I care too much about showering and my situation in life (living with parents) requires that I have a \”normal\” haircut, haircolor, and lack of piercings and tattoos.
3) As a direct result of the reason above, I was the only person dressed up by any stretch of the imagination. In my Ann Taylor pants, low cut cashmere sweater, and fitted suit jacket I looked like an extra from Boston Legal or Law and Order and was dressed better than the salon owner who was flitting about the salon simultaneously micro-managing and losing her mind. The sort of person who acts all condescending about the state of her own salon and, despite expecting the Stylist to say, \”No no no, darling – your place is perfectly fine!\” still beams and flutters and makes depreciating comments. (I hated her instantly)

I did, however, have a few things going for me:
1) There was only several other blondes in the entire room. Out of the 50 mostly girls who showed up.
2) I was one of the tallest people there, by far. Douchebag and Cru were asking for height measurements and most of the girls were teetering on their stilettos and still shorter than me. I was taller than some of the guys who had shown up. D*mn.

I waited until I was able to talk to Douchebag and Cru for the selection process. Douchebag slurred his name at me without a precursory \’hellohowareyou\’, I shook his hand, and introduced myself. \”xXXxXXX!\” he proclaimed.

It should not be possible to pronounce italics, let alone capital letters, but Stylist managed it all the same.

\”No, it\’s xxxxxxx,\” I corrected. \”It\’s like *insert proper analogy that bears reference to my name here*. You know…\”

\”Whatever.\” Douchebag was clearly not fond of being corrected. \”So, wat\’s up wit yo hay-yeah?\” I struggled to understand the question between the slurring and what I can only assume was a psuedo-British accent.

\”What do you mean?\” I asked and waited for clarification. Remembering the hatred of correction I quickly jumped back into the conversation and came up with what I thought the answer should be: \”Well, my hair is naturally wavy but I straightened it a little today. And it\’s blonde.\” I had to restrain myself from slapping my forehead on that last one. Of course it\’s blonde! my internal monologue (which by the way sounds nasal, don\’t ask me why) chastised me.

\”Wha would you get a hay-cut wheh you has to strait\’en yo hayre?\” His, I hesitate to call it, \”manner\” of speaking was really starting to get on my nerves.

\”Sometimes I let it wave. I can do either with this cut.\” He scrutinized me, grabbed the same brush he\’d been using to poke at all the other models, and brushed my hair directly into my face. After coaxing my hair every which way, he\’d made up his mind.

\”This cut. This cut does wee-yahd thihngs. The weight is in all the wrohng places. I would make it mo mod-ehn. Sote of 1940s flappeh, yeah?\”

My mind immediately rushed to my defense. Did he just insult my hair? Seriously? He actually insulted me! I\’m lost on what\’s not modern about the cut and how he managed to put flappers in the wrong decade, really. A much tamer answer came out of my mouth: \”Oh? Well, I\’m curious. What would you change?\” Which goes to show – there is still more than an ounce of ambition left inside me, much to the disbelief of people who know me.

He flopped my hair around with the community brush once more, muttered something about waves and fringe and layers, but I had stopped listening. I spelled out my name to the assistant, stood still for my Polaroid, and left. If I was selected, they said, I would get a call between 9 and 10 p.m.

I was unsurprised later last night when I realized the time was 10:15 and my iPhone lay sleeping silently on the coffee table by my feet, my movie carrying on uninterrupted.

My non-modern haircut and I shrugged. Whatever.

And for the record, any after effects of my foray into the land 0f the drunk and the alcoholic did not affect me in any way.