Status Quo: The Model

Sitting in a cold wear house with visible scaffolding and air ducts. I’m uncomfortable. I’m tense because I’m cold. I’m cold because I’m naked sans a thong and a very thin and short robe. And I’m naked…cuz that's my job.

I scan the room to see other girls getting tended to. The air? smells of perfumed burnt hair products and hair spray. There's girls getting oiled up and powdered down. Hair rollers falling to the ground as curls spring loose. More hair spray, and more powder cloud the air.  

I’m alone…, I'm still naked and I’m still untended to. That is the norm though. I'm always last because it is my job to come to set with my own cosmetics and tools to prep myself. They say the word prep, but they really just want be to do it myself, and the head stylist will dot my face with a few final touches so they can ad to the photo credits that they did my hair and makeup.

But in today’s society, they still don’t know how to do my “type of hair” and they still don’t know how to do my makeup. Have you figured it out yet? I'm expected to show up ready in a job where everyone else is readied by someone else because this world is anti black. This world is anti me.

“Excuse me, what are you doing.” A shrill southern voice attacks my ears.

“My makeup.” I squint my eyes at this tall broad older white woman questioning me. I'm prepared to have to put her in check but she walks away  so fast. I can hear the fading sounds of her clicking her tongue at someone but I’m no longer paying attention.

“You’re from x agency right? Yula?” She returns way too soon with accusation in her tone.

“Yeeees…”

“Sit and watch and don’t bother her. Learn. This will not happen on my set again.” She tells this gym bro diva with the most perfect eyebrows I've ever seen on a man to sit in the seat beside me and I can see the confusion in his fair sun kissed face, but he does as he is told. “I’m sorry Yula, I have to go.” The tall tree trunk of a woman whisks off with the speed of a bunny. So light on her feet,

I didn’t pay the young man any attention until I glance over to see him writing in his notebook. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking notes.”

“On what?”

“ Amy, that tall woman was upset that you were by yourself. She saw that your agency left a note that said not to worry about you and she screamed about how unacceptable it was.”

“Ah. That sounds about right, but why was she mad?”

“Well, she said that your job is talent. You weren’t hired or contracted to do hair and makeup. But because of the agency notes we were unprepared for you. Sorry by the way, so I was sent here to watch you and learn so that this won’t be happening again. I do makeup but I’m only here as an assistant today.”

I was honestly too stunned to speak. Part of me felt like this was a micro aggression, in the fact that it falls on me as a black woman to fix white peoples incompetence when I know full well that there are resources available, but the other part of me sees the effort.

“Did they not see the agency note beforehand. No, there was a different director up until this morning. He was fired for in-appropriate conduct. So we came is as a favor to the guy who owns the brand you’re modeling for today.” That's not unheard of at all. “Um can I look at the brands when you’re done?” He points at my carry on suit case.

“Sure.” He’s a fountain of information.

When I was done with my makeup, I unwrapped my edges and began to loos my twists and finger comb them before securing the twist out in a formal updo per the style brief that only I among the models was made to read. While not a single picture in the mood board had textured hair, that was what they were getting today. I could’ve put on a wig but I didn’t want to and formal doesn’t always mean straight. As I walked away to be dressed, I looked back to see the young man scrutinize the bottle of tanning lotion in my kit. I asked him, “ what was your name again?”

“Jonny.” He returned to taking notes after a quick scan of my glistening bronzed legs.

The next few things, that occurred were so unexpected. Nearly a month later, the magazine spread went live and I was a household name. I was already pretty famous but the topic was how under my picture I was listed as a model and make up artist and hair stylist. I was in the crew credits as well. Commentators were split on this decision. People speculating if it was because I was too difficult to work with, and think pieces on anti blackness in the modeling industry and what it looks like when you are overlooked. Theories or micro and macro aggressions. Whose job is it to fix things. Is this really a problem at all? From social media to news outlets, i was the hot topic.

That same day I received 3 separate letters in the mail, all addressed to me and all with the campaign company’s name on it. Each check was for the separate job rolls I performed while on set that day. I cried. I cried so hard that I got a headache and needed a nap. When I woke up hours later, I checked my email. My inbox was filled with inquiries for interviews, late night tv, podcasts and day time. But there was one more. It was from Amy and it read…

You did the work so I paid you. Nothing more Nothing less. Do not EVER commit to work you are not contracted for again. I will see you soon. -Amy

Through the grape vine I had heard that Amy ripped that styling team a new one. She hired all new stylists and told the old ones, that before they work with her again, they need to provide proof of mentorship and proof of proficiency in makeup the spas beyond colonial beauty standards. Now, she's nicer than she seems, because I also heard she facilitated workshops making it easier for anyone who wanted the knowledge and wanted to stay to get the training they needed.

END