March 6, 2008
My agency calls. I am booked for New York Fashion Week. Nerves build up inside of me. The taxi ride is long. The man driving reeks of cigarettes. We arrive. People scramble to fit models, and hair and make-up crews busy. Clothes are put over me: purple shorts and green top. Poke and prod. My butterflies get bigger; my head feels light.


Crowds of people rush toward me. Water? Unaware of what is happening. I stand. This is a big moment and I can’t ruin it. I am up next. How is my hair, my make-up? Push. Big lights shining in my face. I take a step and then a couple more. A rush of excitement. Whispers are exchanged—sapphire dress and bulky hat. Voices heard. “How beautiful?” Hand on hip and then the turn. Never felt so astounding.


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