photographer, Laurence Goodman, was a big bruiser of a guy who looked more like a football player than a fashion photographer. He was also a mind reader because five seconds after shaking my hand, he pointed to his knee and said, “Bum knee. Ruined my chances at pro ball. My best friend plays for the Giants, but I get to hang out with a lot of pretty girls.”
Then he introduced me to the whole crew: Rosie, the stylist, Teresa, the makeup artist, and Sonia, who did hair.
I almost fell over when I saw the wardrobe: super-tight Daisy Duke shorts, brightly colored gingham blouses, and super-high Candie’s wedges.
“I don’t know if I can fit into that stuff,” I said nervously. Leslie had me meeting with a nutritionist once a week and I was on this Zone meal delivery service. But Chela and I had gone out for burgers and fries the weekend before, and I was already feeling a good two pounds heavier.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rosie said. “I pulled a bunch of sizes, and you are going to look super-cute.” She gave me a sympathetic smile. Cute, maybe. But I’d be freezing. It was already late November, and we were shooting a feature for the June issue.
Laurence and his assistants had prepared three setups: one with me milking a cow, one of me grooming a horse, and the third of me wearing galoshes and throwing handfuls of corn at a pen of pigs.
Did I mention that I grew up in Philadelphia? That in my world, milk came from cows, horses were for driving carriages around Central Park, and don’t get me started on pigs. Ever since I read Charlotte’s Web in third grade, I tried really, really hard not to think about where bacon came from.
I went into hair and makeup, and I have to admit they did an amazing job. Sonia sewed all these hair extensions into my own hair, giving me these long ringlet curls like a Botticelli goddess.
I was admiring myself in the mirror, something that I do like never, when it occurred to me that maybe I could make Kevin’s album release party. I’d call him as soon as the shoot wrapped and see if he could leave me an extra ticket at the door. After all, it would be a shame not to go out when I had this all this fake, fabulous hair and diva makeup on.
Laurence led me over to the cow, which was WAY bigger up close than it had looked from the other side of the barn, where they’d set up hair, makeup, and wardrobe.
“Okay, Bee, the first thing we want you to do is milk this cow,” Laurence said.
“You mean, pretend to milk the cow,” I said. I put my hand on the udder, and it was not a nice feeling. I shivered. I knew my day rate was seven a day, which was ridiculously high. But today I was really, really earning it.
Laurence seemed to feel my pain. “Do whatever makes you comfortable,” he said.
I pretended to milk the cow and tried to remember all the things that Leslie had told me. Connect to the camera with my eyes. Smile, but not so wide that you could see halfway down my throat. I threw my weave around and even wiggled my hips in my Daisy Dukes. It was fun. It felt like I was finally a real model.
Laurence seemed really happy too. He kept jumping all around, catching me from different angles. “That’s great, Bee,” he said. “More like that. Not too sexy; we’re going for all-American-girl sweetness here.”
All of a sudden, I felt like someone had thrown scalding hot water onto my leg. I screamed and slumped onto the floor of the barn. “Ow, ow, ow.”
Everyone came rushing over, and Laurence, who’d apparently grown up on a farm in Wisconsin, was fighting to hold back a grin.
“It burns,” I said, holding on to my leg and rolling around on the floor. “It really, really burns.”
“Cow pee usually does,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “You’ll be okay. Let’s take a break, get you a shower, and have some dinner.”
A cow, an honest-to-goodness cow, used me as her own private urinal. So much for the glamorous life of a fashion model.
By the time
Then he introduced me to the whole crew: Rosie, the stylist, Teresa, the makeup artist, and Sonia, who did hair.
I almost fell over when I saw the wardrobe: super-tight Daisy Duke shorts, brightly colored gingham blouses, and super-high Candie’s wedges.
“I don’t know if I can fit into that stuff,” I said nervously. Leslie had me meeting with a nutritionist once a week and I was on this Zone meal delivery service. But Chela and I had gone out for burgers and fries the weekend before, and I was already feeling a good two pounds heavier.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rosie said. “I pulled a bunch of sizes, and you are going to look super-cute.” She gave me a sympathetic smile. Cute, maybe. But I’d be freezing. It was already late November, and we were shooting a feature for the June issue.
Laurence and his assistants had prepared three setups: one with me milking a cow, one of me grooming a horse, and the third of me wearing galoshes and throwing handfuls of corn at a pen of pigs.
Did I mention that I grew up in Philadelphia? That in my world, milk came from cows, horses were for driving carriages around Central Park, and don’t get me started on pigs. Ever since I read Charlotte’s Web in third grade, I tried really, really hard not to think about where bacon came from.
I went into hair and makeup, and I have to admit they did an amazing job. Sonia sewed all these hair extensions into my own hair, giving me these long ringlet curls like a Botticelli goddess.
I was admiring myself in the mirror, something that I do like never, when it occurred to me that maybe I could make Kevin’s album release party. I’d call him as soon as the shoot wrapped and see if he could leave me an extra ticket at the door. After all, it would be a shame not to go out when I had this all this fake, fabulous hair and diva makeup on.
Laurence led me over to the cow, which was WAY bigger up close than it had looked from the other side of the barn, where they’d set up hair, makeup, and wardrobe.
“Okay, Bee, the first thing we want you to do is milk this cow,” Laurence said.
“You mean, pretend to milk the cow,” I said. I put my hand on the udder, and it was not a nice feeling. I shivered. I knew my day rate was seven a day, which was ridiculously high. But today I was really, really earning it.
Laurence seemed to feel my pain. “Do whatever makes you comfortable,” he said.
I pretended to milk the cow and tried to remember all the things that Leslie had told me. Connect to the camera with my eyes. Smile, but not so wide that you could see halfway down my throat. I threw my weave around and even wiggled my hips in my Daisy Dukes. It was fun. It felt like I was finally a real model.
Laurence seemed really happy too. He kept jumping all around, catching me from different angles. “That’s great, Bee,” he said. “More like that. Not too sexy; we’re going for all-American-girl sweetness here.”
All of a sudden, I felt like someone had thrown scalding hot water onto my leg. I screamed and slumped onto the floor of the barn. “Ow, ow, ow.”
Everyone came rushing over, and Laurence, who’d apparently grown up on a farm in Wisconsin, was fighting to hold back a grin.
“It burns,” I said, holding on to my leg and rolling around on the floor. “It really, really burns.”
“Cow pee usually does,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “You’ll be okay. Let’s take a break, get you a shower, and have some dinner.”
A cow, an honest-to-goodness cow, used me as her own private urinal. So much for the glamorous life of a fashion model.
By the time
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