I was a redneck runway model. It was a few years ago. Thirty-odd years. And some pounds ago. Let’s not go there.
Anyway, I was one of those walking clothes hangers. You’ve seen them. On VH1…wearing clothes that normal humans wouldn’t be caught dead in, standing with their hip bones jutting out like a rack of antlers. I was never on VH1, though. My jobs were mostly parading around in department store furs, spritzing perfume on protesting shoppers.
“How,” you might ask, “does one become a redneck runway model?” Well, you have to know the difference between a Walker hound and a redbone. And you have to own your own pair of Liberty overalls. Next you have to be taller than the average female. Which I am. And skinny… which I was. Then you just have to wait for somebody to “discover” you.
It happened my third year in college. The owner of a little agency approached me in the mall. I was wearing brogan boots, which might explain why she was cautious. I have a distinct memory of her wearing lipstick that looked like pink vinyl. She asked, “Hey have you ever thought of being a model?”
I was puzzled. “Like the cars?”
She laughed politely, her hyper-white teeth flashed in a practiced smile. “No, Like in Fashion.” I was pretty stunned by this question. I considered. “No. Not really.” She continued, regarding me shrewdly, taking in my broken fingernails. “Well, do you want to?” I shrugged. “Not really.” I said again. She smiled, adding, “Do you want to make lots of easy money for doing nothing?” That part sounded pretty good to me, so I said, “Sign me up.”
She wrote the modeling agency in Paris saying she’d found a fabulous girl with “great hair.” 19 years old and at least 5’11” tall. What she didn’t tell them is that I was really only the tall side of 5’10”, I was actually 21 years old- which is geriatric in the modeling world- and I had an unruly bramble of thatch sprouting out of the top of my head. When I arrived at the agency in Paris, I’m not sure what they were expecting, but I’m sure it wasn’t me.
The agent, Claude, pitched a fit. In several different languages. He told me that my hands were atrocious. My hair was awful. He told me that I was too old and he should just send me back on the next plane. That’s where my redneck pride kicked in. I told him that if I was that bad, maybe he should send me home. But Claude never heard that part. He was already burning up the phone, trying to find some emergency stylists to transform the bedraggled creature that just appeared on his doorstep.
Finally he paused his tirade and asked, “Where’s your luggage?” I was only carrying a shoulder bag. I left my suitcase downstairs. This resulted in another blistering barrage, mostly in French. “IDIOT!” I understood that word. “Stupid Americans.” I understood that, too. “Why did you leave your bag downstairs?” I shrugged, thinking, “Maybe because it was six stories up here with no elevator, and I couldn’t carry it all that way?”
Well apparently, this was a reoccurring problem. Girls arrived, unable to haul their luggage up the stairs, leave it halfway and find that it vanished upon their return. I still wonder what lucky individual got my bag, and what they thought as they rifled through my bluegrass tapes and camo-pajamas. Fortunately I was wearing my Liberties at the time, so at least they didn’t get them.
It’s always very strange how things work out. As I lay in bed that night, listening to the sound of a city I didn’t know… clown car sirens and French guys yelling…I said a little prayer. “Look God, I’m not sure why you brought me here. I’m pretty sure I don’t belong here. So if you really want me to stay, I’m going to need a pretty strong sign.”
Next day I went on a “Go-see.” That’s when you sit in a crowded waiting room with 20 neurotically thin girls chain-smoking cigarettes. They were all wearing haute couture. I was wearing the same overalls that I had on the day before.
A guy came out. He was only the photographer’s assistant, so none of the other girls looked twice at him. He asked to see my portfolio. I told him, “just got here and don’t have one yet.” He asked how I liked Paris so far. I answered, “Well other than working for a maniac…losing all my worldly processions to a luggage thief…and rooming with a schizophrenic anorexic, I suppose I like it just fine.”
He looked at me pityingly. “You lost everything?” I nodded. He stopped for a second then asked, “What size shoe do you wear?” I was puzzled. “Eight and ½.” He laughed. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you some clothes.”
Apparently, his Model girlfriend had moved hurriedly back to the states, leaving a pile of fashionable clothes, in my size- clothes that he needed to get rid of. I didn’t ask any questions and took possession of my new wardrobe. It seemed like a pretty good sign to me.