State of Dreaming

Catwalk and Chaos

The show, scheduled to start at 6pm is bang on time. The anticipation in the air is palpable as the backstage area hums with a potent mix of nervous energy and eager anticipation. The scent of hairspray and the lingering aroma of designer perfumes intermingle, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that envelops us all. I catch fleeting glimpses of the intricate choreography being carried out by the diligent backstage crew, their synchronized movements a testament to the meticulous planning that goes into orchestrating a seamless runway presentation. I'm standing backstage in full dress, not a skincell out of place, hair curled and rock solid with product. My feet are securely strapped and taped into a pair of 6 inch stilettos and I can feel the bodytape on my chest, ripping tiny hairs every time I move. A long line of lesser models stand in front of me, waiting to go onstage. The production manager shouts some directions over the deafening thump of the music and I see the first models begin to file out. I don't know most of them, as this is Jujuplex's first ever runway show and they've chosen to use mostly fresh, emerging talent, brought on specifically for the runway launch. 

Last year Rozovy decided to break into the live runway game as one of the first in beauty to do so. They started with their most luxury brand YSR as a soft launch of sorts, and are trickling down to the other companies and brands. This year YSR are scheduled for Christmas again, competing with the Victoria's Secret Angels show. I didn't think it was a good idea last year but after the VS flop, the spot for Christmas runway show became wide open. I hope it does as well as predicted because, as the face of Rozovy, I stand to make a lot of money on the YSR runway show and subsequent sales. 

A few of the model's hushed conversation can be heard over the thump thump of the bass. 

"Have you seen the heels they've got us in tonight?" whispers a stick thin blonde, her icy blue eyes reflecting the nervous energy rippling through the others in the line. 

"I swear I'm going to topple over before I even make it to the end of the catwalk." The blonde that replies has a bob and is dressed in all blue to match her striking cobalt makeup.

A model I recognise but can't name turns around to face me, her raven locks cascading effortlessly down her shoulders, flashed a dazzling smile as she adjusts the strap of her designer gown. "Nervous, Blair?" she asks, her emerald eyes glimmering with anticipation.

I roll my eyes and she quickly turns back to speak to a different model. I literally don't even know her and I'm trying to just get into the zone, I don't need useless distractions right now. The giddy trio giggle to each other and I feel more annoyance rise in my chest. It's really not that funny, I don't understand why some models can't just take their jobs seriously. Though the first blonde is right, these heels are a little crazy, I can already feel my toes scrunching impossibly under the pressure of my bodyweight.

I already hold little excitement for Jujuplex, mostly because I'm just not a huge fan of their products but all the social media attention this gets makes it worth it at the end of the day. Like, I can already smell the comments and memes about to be made about the show and likely, at my expense. They don't bother me. After all, as they say, there's no such thing as bad publicity. My social media manager is always telling me to embrace the haters as they make me more money than the fans. And since my success is her success, I don't argue. She was proven right last year when the October  Vogue spread on me became involved in a circulating meme focusing on a botched photoshop by the photo editing department. At first I was enraged and humiliated but soon the hate turned into support from loyal fans and I saw a huge spike in my followers, brand deals followed close behind. Since then, I trust my social media manager's every word.

I glance around me once again, taking in the sights and sounds, letting the buzz of excitement seep through my hard exterior. I feel a trickle of excitement myself, but my stony features refuse to give anything away. A movement at the corner of my eye catches my attention. It's Ms Fedorov talking to a man I haven't seen before. He looks european, or maybe russian like Charlene, and is wearing all black. A snood is bunched around his neck under his chin, which strikes me as odd considering the sweltering temperatures backstage. They stay like this for a few minutes then the man disappears and Charlene hurries off to terrorise some director probably. I turn my attention back to the job at hand, getting ready for the runway starting any second.