"Get it!"

Like many typical college students, I found that upon moving out of my parent's house, fiscal responsibility had taken control of my social life. Paying tuition, coupled with laundry, food, and other "adulty" stuff means less going out to coffee, fewer road trips, and no life size cardboard cutouts of Western Washington celebrities (Edward? Jacob?)

So, to battle what I like to call "being poor" I have taken up Craigslist surfing as my latest hobby. My goal is not long term, but a quick job that will help me make some fast cash. Recently I found an ad on the Seattle Craigslist looking for models for a hair show. I laughed to myself. The post looked fake. It called for both men and women, 18 and over, must be taller than 5'7". They promised to pay $300, minus a 20% cut to the agency. It was late Friday night when I came across it. I was tired and in my what-the-heck attitude, I responded.

I got emailed back. They told me to show up at 3pm at the Sheraton downtown on Saturday. They told me they were an agency from New Jersey. The website they gave me was poorly constructed and not every professional, but I figured the worst that could happen was I would have a scenic drive to Seattle.

After the ever present challenge of parking, I found myself in the middle of one of the fanciest hotels in the city. I stood in a hallway of velvet walls and beautiful people, waiting for same thing I was. I stood off at the end of the queue and did my best to look like them. They were all young, dressed well, and exuded confidence. I suddenly remembered to slip on the stillettos I'd stowed in my bag. I tried to take off my boat shoes as coyly as I could manage. With the sleek black heels I stood at 6', tall enough to blend in with my new found peers. I was adjusting my stance to mirror the girl in front of me. "I usually don't do work for under $500, just because I live so far away. I don't know why my agent sent me here." I was intrigued, amused, and bewildered.

I had just begun to sort out my emotions when a stout middle aged woman ushered the us into the meeting room. I stood in back as she bagan to talk at us. The woman was a representative of the hair product company. She started to explain the nature of the event: That two guest hair artists would be flying in to do a demo show for stylists who worked at area salons. She separated the would-be models into groups, according to what the stylists were allowed to do. "Color but no cut", "Cut but no color", and "Anything goes." I sat in the last group. A man with perfectly manicured eyebrows came in, looking for models for his 2010 line. He introduced himself as John C. Simpson, winner of Colorist of the Year for 2009. Upon learning that such a prize existed, I found myself charmed by the man. He was fabulous, effeminate, and called every person he talked to by the name of "friend."

He went around to everyone at the casting call getting names, searching his manual, and scribbling notes. Every so often he would confer with the stout woman and they would talk in some sort of hair dresser code. "What if we did the Misa cut with all over 7C, 5 parts NG with warm H2 tones through her petals?" The woman would either agree or disagree, then John would scribble down more notes. He came to me eventually, and asked what I would be willing to do. "Anything you'd like." He smiled and showed me a cut in one of the design books. I nodded. "Sure."

After signing some papers, I met the others he had chosen. Four other girls and a guy. Each of them were from real agencies I soon found out. I kept quiet about my craigslist secret, while I did my best to play the part. We were sent up to one of the hotel's suites on the 28th floor. When I walked in the room, as well as 3 other adjoining rooms, had been gutted and transformed into a makeshift hair salon with a full design team. Chairs were set up at stations with bottles and vials of God knows what. Some of us would be staying for a bit while they worked on our hair, and the remaining people would have to come back the following day. I left the hotel at nearly midnight, with short bleach blonde hair. My long golden locks I had known since elementary school were gone and I loved it. I drove back to Olympia that night in an excellent mood. I had gotten a free haircut, a free coffee and food, and a hilarious story that was mine to tell.

After shocking my roommates, I returned the next day at 11am. Over the course of the next few hours, they toned my hair, cut it some more and eventually styled it. During the down time I got to know a few of the people I was working with. The models were very nice, and most worked other jobs. Two others were students, one worked as a marketing assistant, and the silly asian girl told me she was a manager at a Bank of America branch. At every wash, color, or cut, I tried to make small talk with whatever stylist was working on me. Few of them were from the area, and alot traveled around with John to work at the expo shows. Some related horror stories of working with LA models, some talked about their children. All in all it was a whirlwind afternoon.

Sometime after a catered lunch, John led the six of us into the grand ballroom of the hotel. My heart stopped. There in the center of the huge room, in front of the hundreds of chairs that were being set up, was a runway. Crap. I knew I couldn't walk. I was as tall as a model, I could act like a model, and I could stand like a models stood, but there was no way I could walk down a runway like a model. Earlier one of the other students had told me that she had paid $1500 to sign with her agency and get runway lessons. The confidence I had faked during casting drained out of me. I wanted to leave. I could slip out the door quietly, leaving my new friends to practice for the evening's show. The contract I had signed told me that if I didnt show up, I would be billed for the haircut. I remembered asking John what he would've charged me in his salon. His casual $500-$800 reply kept me from running out the lobby's revolving doors and never looking back. That, and of course the encouraging texts from my friend Mikki whose extensive knowledge of ANTM came in handy.

Luckily, rehearsal was a breeze. John's line was intended to be casual and friendly, so we were told "No stiff, bourgey model walks." It wasn't pretentious and best of all, it was doable. We were soon back up to the mock salon. After a bit more styling came makeup and wardrobe. They put me in a horribly clingy gray dress, but with my new haircut I felt as though I could take on a gunny sack and rock it. I realized that all of us were in gray. "To showcase the hair, not the outfit," the stout woman said. When it was finally showtime we were led backstage. After a waiting a while, Lily Allen came on over the speakers, and that was our que. One by one we walked out, then back. Quick, easy, and surprisingly, without a hitch. After John's presentation, we were to walk around the room while the guests ate appetizers and drank. We were oohed and ahhed over for a while before we too were allowed to eat. The stout woman appeared again, warning us not to get crumbs on our outfits.

With that, the night was over. Quick trip up to the hotel room and I was back in my jeans and boat shoes. My old self, minus the hair. I made out like a bandit, just for pretending to be a model and having nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon. New friends, free food, complimentary hair products, and a check at the end of the month. Oh yeah, and a kicka** new hairstyle, if I do say so myself.

Models and John C. Simpson

All of us.

Before the show.After the show. (It got bigger.)And now.