Return of the angry little red-head * Aug 1998

Another week, another casting and another foray into the big bad city... That's all I remember thinking when Storm told me to attend a casting for SA Fashion Week at designer Jenni Button's studios. I recall being boggled by the one-ways around Glynn street and weary of the warehouse type building where I seemed to be headed. This couldn't be right? But I found a parking spot somewhere and followed other gangly-looking girls into the industrial building and up the narrow staircase.

At the top, I walked smack-bang into my old friend, the 'angry little lady with a villainous red severe bob' also known as Lucilla Booysen, show director extraodinaire. She gave me a half-smile that made me wonder whether she could possibly remember me from five years before, when I'd last appeared in one of her fashion shows. But the smile disappeared as suddenly as it had arrived and she shoo'ed all the models from the entrance to the other side of the big loft.

As usual, we had to line up before strutting from one end to the other. The collection of girls present was as varied as ever and I felt a twinge of the old nerves and uncertainty as the first tall blonde sashayed her way down the make-shift runway. But by this time I'd been around the block once or twice and I suppose I'd started realising that it's nothing personal. You either have the look they're going for or you don't, so I felt slightly less intimidated than before.

When my turn came, I tried to ignore all the high-stepping pony walks I'd seen and just walked from one end to the other. Well, I walked as normally as is possible in six inch high, chunky heeled platforms! My friend Nightingale and I had found these most incredible black, strapped and buckled shoes and we both wore them non-stop, but listen, they were high! Added to my healthy 1.75m (5'9") frame, I am sure I must've looked quite more than less like a giraffe.

Lucilla frowned, Jenni Button frowned. Lucilla stared at me in confusion and then said, "dear girl, please remove those ridiculous shoes, I can't fathom how tall you really are!" I dutifully removed them, and took my place next to the other girls who hadn't been let go yet, in my stockinged feet. Their frowns lessened somewhat. They made us all walk up and down a few times more, all the while whispering and gesturing to each other. A few more girls were sent home with regretful smiles and then we were ten.

The ten of us then had to try on Jenni Button's show samples, roughly finished dresses in beautiful, softly patterned silks... I loved them. Stepping back onto our pretend catwalk in a Jenni Button gown, I felt like I was floating and by Lucilla's growing smile, I knew I'd cracked the nod.

Before we were dismissed, Lucilla gave us a list of venues and times when we had to meet with other designers being showcased at fashion week. Lucilla and Jenni chose the biggest group, then the other designers could choose however many girls they needed from the original group. I was excited to find Michelle and Lisa-Marie had made the cut too.

On my way out the door, ridiculous heels back on my feet, Lucilla glowered at me. "Throw those damn shoes in the river my girl, and that lipstick too, while you're at it!" I was a little bit shocked and offended, but managed an unsure smile with my Vixen-dark lips. Lucilla stepped closer and took a good look at me. "Also, you need a haircut. Make an appointment at Carlton Hair and tell them I sent you." I mumbled thanks and made for the door.

A few days later I showed up at the further castings with a gorgeous shiny new head of hair. A sweet soul at Carlton had given me a colour treatment in a warm, solid chocolate shade and chopped a half fringe across my brow. I felt super confident with the edgy new cut, sans ridiculous heels and even forgoing my standard dark berry lip. I got picked for every show I cast for, and a darling young designer, Natalie for Juniper, said I had just the look that she'd hoped for: a vintage, porcelain doll. I didn't quite know what to make of the compliment, but felt super excited to be a part of only the second ever South African Fashion Week.

Fair Lady Naked Lady

We had a rehearsal for the Fair Lady show, which is a highly irregular occurrence. As a rule, when you are cast in a fashion show, you might have to attend a fitting or two prior to the event, but any choreography is quickly explained in the few hours before the show, when the models are all at the venue anyway, having their hair and make up done. You see, time is money and show producers don’t want to pay for any more of the models’ time than is absolutely necessary.

So it was a blessing that for my very first show, we did actually get to rehearse the routine to the music that would play on the day. I guess they’d decided to work with rather inexperienced fresh faces to suit the ‘Young Designer’ theme and wanted to give us some much needed confidence. Being inexperienced, we were also still cheap.

The second bit of luck was that we were doing the entire show barefoot and that the show director, Lucilla Booyzen (previously known as the angry little redhead lady), really wanted us to walk super normal and naturally. I remember being at the rehearsal, strolling down the ramp to “No, no, no, you don’t love me this I know now…” and Lucilla saying “You’re really feeling the music, wonderful.” This a mere ten minutes after she scolded me for standing with my arms crossed in front of me… Apparently a no, no, no while listening to Lucilla talk!

The day of the show finally arrived, and while my Bad Boyfriend was not exactly thrilled about it, he hadn’t given me too much grief. I was as excited as a child on Christmas morning, but obviously had to keep my cool and act terribly blasé as soon as I joined the other girls at the venue.

When I found the rail with my name and outfits on it, my blood chilled. The first number was a simple white linen sheath, with a tribal tattoo print in places. It had slits on both sides, coming right up to my hipbones. The linen was sheer, which meant quite completely see-through under spotlights. On my upper arm, I had to wear miniature deer horns, tied on with leather cords.

I can’t recall my second outfit to save my life, I must’ve suppressed it so deep down that the memory will never ever resurface, but I know for a fact that it was even more revealing than the first.

The final number was a nun’s habit by comparison, a tiny a-line miniskirt and a cropped knit top with long bell sleeves. A woven basket went on my back with leather straps, silk flowers artfully arranged to peek out through the top of the basket.

Which reminds me, I should explain something about Young Designer competitions. Popular themes for Young Designer Competitions include Innovation by Technical Design, Recycle/Reuse/Resurrect Nature, the Future of Fashion, Wearable Art, Culture Clash and Form vs. Function.

The grand finale fashion show then exhibits the design student finalists whose work really grabbed the judges’ attention. Inevitably, the students interpret the themes by creating the strangest, most uncomfortable, and usually nude-est attire to display their creative genius. Look, I know everyone has to start somewhere and tries real hard to be original, but what’s with all the nudity?

Anyway, once again I knew there was no turning back and I fervently wished the rest of the show over. There was a lot of press, including TV cameras, backstage and I nervously ducked and dodged my way to the stage, to prevent my poor Grandmother catching her half naked granddaughter on the nation’s favourite magazine show.

I can’t remember if the other girls were as shocked as I was by our lack of clothing, I think it was made much worse for me by the fear of some picture or snippet coming into my Bad Boyfriend’s view. Every unpleasant thing he’d ever said about me would be validated; I felt like I was compromising my morals to be in a silly fashion show. I only prayed that he would never know, and swore to myself that this debut would also be the finale in my glorious modeling career.

Mostly, ramp modeling isn’t rocket science. You walk down the ramp, turn and walk back out, but it’s amazing how complicated it can feel once you step out under the lights and observe a thousand or so faces intently watching your every move. When all that’s between your privacy and two thousand intense eyes is a little floss of flesh coloured G-string and a sheer linen sheath, mortification takes on a whole new meaning.

Show Pony

But I digress. I was with The Bad Boyfriend. He didn’t trust me further than he could throw me, he thought all women were horrible sluts and that my wearing anything remotely flattering was a direct offense towards him.

Why I put up with this, deserves a whole different blog and probably a couple of years of therapy, but suffice it to say that he was three years older than my naïve romantic self, and he had also charmed my family into thinking that we were a normal, blissfully happy teenage couple.

I got another call from the agency. There was a fashion show casting and they were looking for really young, fresh faces. I took down the details, already perplexed.

I knew Bad Boy wouldn't like this one bit. Me, up on a ramp for the whole world to see in whatever outfit the casting director saw fit? He’d rather shut me in a closet and throw away the key. In a rare streak of rebellion I thought "Sod it, this is my life!" and arranged with my parents to take me to the casting.

I remember exactly what I wore that day. At the modelling course we’d been told that you should wear a short skirt and high heels to show castings so that the client can see your legs and your walk. My sisters were only to keen to help me find just the right look and pretty soon I was stepping out in a tight black and white striped miniskirt, a fitted denim waistcoat over a shrunken black tee and sky-high cork sole wedges. All these trendy, tiny items came from my precocious thirteen year old stepsister’s closet. I smeared on my lucky charm Vixen lipstick, added lashings of mascara and off we went.

Show pony:

The show I was casting for was the gala event of the Fair Lady Young Designer of the Year competition. Fair Lady sounds remarkably uncool doesn’t it? Yet it’s one of the handful of local woman’s magazines, along with Cosmopolitan, Elle and Glamour that we get here and therefore entirely respectable. I joined a long queue of tall, gangly girls on the 11^th floor of the infamously ugly skyscraper hosting Media24.

One by one, we each had to walk the length of the room while an angry little lady with villainous red hair styled in a severe bob scowled at us and called out instructions. When it was my turn, I tried my best to imitate what I perceived to be a model walk. A step or two into the endless walk of shame, I knew I was failing, quite badly.

“No no no no no!” exclaimed the angry little lady. “What are you doing? Why are you walking like a horse? Take off those ridiculous shoes, stop trying so hard and just walk. Pretend you’re walking down the street with your friends, no weird model walks please!”

So I did that, thinking to myself, this is complete bullshit. I just wanted to carry right on walking when I made it to the back of the room, leave the ugly empty boardroom with the tall pretty staring girls and the angry little lady far behind me. But then she said “Great, thank you, that’s all I ever wanted. Please wait over here.” I watched in awe as the angry little lady broke a smile and gestured me over to the side of the room where five other girls, who could obviously also walk normally, sat waiting.

We sat in silence while the casting director observed and scowled and instructed. We cringed with shared embarrassment whenever someone was summarily dismissed, smiled shy welcoming smiles when someone was miraculously motioned over to our side. After a while I thought I could tell when she’d make someone stay. It seemed that she preferred the more natural, slightly offbeat girls to the gorgeous sexpots in full makeup and Wonderbras.

A pretty girl with strawberry blonde hair and gorgeous freckles came up and pouted all along the walkway. When the lady instructed her to stop pouting, she went bright red and couldn’t suppress a nervous smile. The smile revealed that she was wearing metal braces - the only reason she was ‘pouting’ was to keep her secret under wraps. We all looked expectantly at the lady, fearing her wrath. Instead she broke into another delighted smile and even laughed out loud.

“That’s just wonderful! How sweet! Now do your walk again but let me see those braces, don’t hide them away behind that silly pout!”

My mouth dropped open in disbelief.

By the end of the casting, about an hour later, there were twelve girls left. We were all tall, skinny and young but that was where the similarities ended. We were black or brown or white or yellow or pink; exotic, expressive and overconfident or plain, fine featured and shy plus everything in between.

We were models.