The Selection (Is A Modelling Competition)✔️

Chapter 3: Being A Model Sucks

I still really, really, really, really wanted to be eliminated, even though the thought made me feel guilty, because I would be sending home more money in a month than I would have made in a year doing my regular job.

We had arrived less than half an hour ago, only to be commandeered by a very firm, very shrill, and very self-assured woman named Sylvia, who informed us that she was the coordinator and director of all our activities at Monarchy Modeling and Schreave Cosmetics' competition. Also, that currently we were to be prepared for our first day working with the camera.

Which, apparently, meant going through hair, makeup, and fashion. This was run by three women who introduced themselves as Anne, Lucy, and Mary, each the heads of one of the departments, who would be coming to briefly oversee all of our makeovers. I was put into hair first, where the stylist gushed - fairly close to May-level gushing - over the colour of my hair, saying how it was such a vibrant red, and had I ever noticed how there were also streaks of blond and auburn weaving through it? I said no, I just washed it and brushed it. She laughed at this, like it was a joke, and then put my hair into a braided bun. Meanwhile, I looked at the other girls.

Some looked excited, while others -like Celeste, and a brunette whose name I thought started with a B - looked bored as if this was routine, and some like me, who were clearly uncomfortable. Marlee, however, looked calm, a radiant smile on her face. Content, like this was exactly where she wanted to be, as she closed her eyes and opened them according to the makeup artist's instructions as they wiped off her makeup and applied mascara, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and products I couldn't name.

When it was my turn for makeup, I headed over to a little booth with a folding mirror so that I could see myself from every angle, cluttered with all sorts of pans and tubes that of product I couldn't even begin to name. The makeup artist, a petite, jittery girl who looked not much older than me, asked, "So, what kind of look are we going for? Evening? Natural?"

"Um-" My mind was blank. It had been a long day and all I wanted to do was go outside me take deep, gulping breaths of fresh air but that was impossible. "As little as possible, please."

The makeup girl raised her eyebrows. "If you say so." I guess there weren't a lot of girls that didn't want that much makeup.

I looked around and saw that that was true: some girls looked totally different from when they had first arrived, others had even dyed their hair different colours... No one would pass up the chance to be expertly made over on live TV, I supposed.

My time in the makeup chair, fortunately, was brief. The head of makeup, Anne, came over and nodded approvingly at the makeup girl who was curling my eyelashes, and frowned when she picked up a bottle of red nail polish. "Give her a more natural colour. Matte gold, maybe nude."

I was relieved; I never painted my nails at home to begin with. By the time I was done, I looked like... Myself, but better. I wouldn't do this every day if I had a choice, but it wasn't too bad.

After some mind-numbing hours in a chair for hair and makeup, I made it to fashion.

I was assigned a stylist named Cindy. She assured me that she would make me look trendy, but with my own personal style. I told her I wanted to look as casual as possible, and she, like the makeup girl, frowned. "I'm not sure if Mary will approve of that- there are a lot of skirts here, a lot of dresses and things. Would you like to take a look?"

I did, and asked her if there was anything with linen or denim. She gasped, like I'd committed some crime, then said breathlessly, "Wait here."

She returned with a embellishment-collared denim vest, a belted denim shirt dress, some jean skirts all of various length and wash, a leather jacket, and some tank tops and flannel button-downs, all softer and made of better material than anything I'd worn in my life. "Well?" She asked expectantly.

"Oh, wow." I ran my fingers over them. The denim shirt dress was soft, long enough that it would skim my knees, and decorated with pearl buttons and a rhinestone-studded collar. There was a belt, pale and shiny, and when I put on the dress, along with a camel-coloured jacket made of the butteriest leather, and low-heeled sandals with tan straps that wound around my ankles, I felt, for the first time since I'd arrived, excited.

Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.