The Wig, the Bitch & the Meltdown

by Jay Manuel

  It would be mostly Steadicam shots now, portable cameras strapped to operators who would follow the girls behind the scenes, down the street and into their lives. In a few hours, after their confidentiality agreements were signed and all basic rights were given up, they would be swept away in a giant Hummer to The Chelsea Hotel, where they would live together for the next several weeks while being transformed into swans. Hopefully.

  In their own ostentatious stretched Escalade, Keisha and Pablo collapsed back in the soft leather seats and stared at each other in shocked silence. Then they started laughing. They laughed so hard tears rolled down their faces. They laughed as Pablo popped the champagne and it sprayed their faces. They laughed as they toasted their success, their show, the world. They laughed until they couldn’t laugh anymore.

  6

  MAKEOVER MUSINGS

  THE FIRST DAY of shooting had covered the models moving into The Chelsea Hotel and filmed Keisha, alone, welcoming them to their new abode. The second day of filming focused on the makeover. The first stop was the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue, overlooking Central Park. The network’s model mobile was a twenty-foot-long super-stretched black Hummer, fully loaded with a giant TV, colorful LED mood lighting, hidden cameras, bottles of water and snacks. It pulled up outside the Plaza, where Queen Keisha and Pablo waited on the red-carpeted steps, under the large flags and the green-gold awning of Manhattan’s most illustrious hotel. A rainbow of ethnically diverse models piled out onto the sidewalks of New York, gaping up at the fashion dignitaries.

  “New models need to be versatile. And you can’t always depend on your natural beauty,” Keisha told her young cast. “So today, I’m bringing you to the Warren-Tricomi Salon, one of New York’s most prestigious salons, and giving you makeovers.”

  The rock-star of hair, Edward Tricomi, stepped up next to Keisha and introduced himself. Tricomi’s own long tresses swept under his chin as he pursed his lips and looked at the disheveled girls standing before him. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  Keisha nodded. “We sure do.”

  “Right this way.” Tricomi gestured toward the steps leading up into the famed hotel.

  Upstairs on the second floor, and inside the salon, were a collection of assistants who stood at attention, with black capes to adorn the models. Two Steadicam operators, wearing body harnesses to secure the cameras firmly to their chests, danced around the models and stars as Keisha and Pablo discussed bone structure, hair, assets and weaknesses with the stylist. Moving down the line of guinea pigs, Keisha was loud and brutally honest. Here, Keisha reigned supreme with her ideas on how to transform the girls with new looks that would give them an edge in the fashion world. Pablo found he didn’t always agree with her, though, and tried to only play up assets. But he was playing second fiddle to Keisha’s first. Tricomi narrowed his eyes and snapped the scissors in his hands, impatient to start cutting.

  “Hannah, you’re next,” Pablo said.

  A charming girl-next-door blonde with ice-blue eyes stepped up and smiled. She had one of those smiles that was so genuine that Pablo found himself smiling back.

  Keisha looked over at him and tilted her head. “Hannah needs more edge to be a model,” she began. “Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farm isn’t high fashion.”

  Pablo disagreed but didn’t say anything.

  “I’d like to see a pixie cut and her bangs chopped right here.” She gestured up high on her own forehead, above her eyebrows. “And dyed black. Blue-black.”

  Tricomi raised one eyebrow. It was all Pablo needed to see to gather his courage and disagree with Keisha. “She’ll look way too harsh on camera,” he said. Tricomi nodded affirmatively. The camera swerved to close in on Pablo’s face. “And her structure is all wrong for short bangs. She has a fleshy face and needs hair to shape it. I love the white blonde, but I’d like to see some depth and give her a bit more volume. Some darker blonde to help her face stand out. What do you think, Edward?”

  Tricomi stepped forward. “I would give her lots of layers. Color, a 7G and 7NG, just a bit beneath the layers to create color volume. It will shrink her face and we can work the hair into a variety of styles.”

  Keisha pouted her gorgeous lips but shrugged. She’d clearly been overruled by both men. “I guess that could work.”

  “Great!” Pablo surprised himself by saying, “Who’s next?”

  The hair transformations were going really well. Pablo sighed with relief. He’d saved Hannah, and now…

  “Ahh!” Heather, the ebony beauty ran past them, screaming her head off.

  “What’s wrong?” Pablo ran after her.

  “Follow them,” Rachel shouted at one of the Steadicam operators.

  “My expensive weave. It’s all gone.” She threw herself into Pablo’s arms and sobbed. “I look like a boy.”

  “You look beautiful.” Pablo tilted her head back and looked directly into her terrified eyes. “You couldn’t look anything but beautiful. Keisha’s given you an edge. You have to look deep inside yourself and have the courage to believe that and work it to your advantage.”

  She snuffled. “How?”

  “That’s what we’re here to teach you.”

  “Great stuff,” Rachel whispered.

  The full makeovers were going to take all day. The girls’ only break, per SAG-AFTRA regulations, was a thirty-minute meal break every six hours, but the cameras kept rolling. Soggy tuna fish sandwiches with cans of Diet Coke were handed to the model contestants as they got back into their Hummer limo to be driven to their next appointment.

  In the crew van, Pablo looked down at their cold, damp cardboard lunch boxes from The Little Beet and looked over at Rachel. “Can’t we get some food sponsors to cater us?”

  “Not my job, but if you want to try, my stomach would love you.”

  Pablo was now starving and somewhat annoyed that Keisha had taken off in her Escalade with De La Renta, ahead of the production team, and didn’t bother to ask him to join her. He hated the feeling of being left behind.

  After driving around in circles to kill time, the contestant’s Hummer finally arrived at Laura Mercier’s NYC offices on the Upper East Side. The young models with their new looks piled out of the metal beast, tripping over themselves and each other to get into the bright lights of the makeup artist’s salon. The sharp modernist décor and high ceilings stunned the girls into semi-silence.

  “So, girls, this is gonna be your first, of weekly, teach sessions,” Keisha told the wide-eyed models, “where you will learn the art of being a model muse.”

  “What’s that mean, anyway?” Hannah whispered to Heather.

  “Got me.”

  They didn’t have time to think more.

  “To accomplish that, I wanna introduce you all to none other than Kim Kardashian’s makeup artist, Mario Dedivanovic.” Keisha gestured toward the drop-dead gorgeous, yet bashful, Albanian.

  “Makeup By Mario,” the girls squealed like little piglets. It was not at all attractive. It was, however, understandable. Mario was hot, and his brushes had touched the faces of many A-list stars.

  “So today, models, your muse is gonna make sure you know how to work your new look for castings, fashion parties,” she paused dramatically, “and, of course, Instagram.”

  When the cameras turned toward Pablo, no one squealed. “A team of artists will do half your face, teaching you the art of applying makeup.” He got the boring lines. “Afterwards, you’ll make up the other half of your face. We’ll look at how well you did. Keisha and Mario will make suggestions, and we’ll move on to the next look they’re gonna teach you.”

  “Before I forget, I’m giving you all a white tank top and skinny jeans, regulation model attire for all castings. You know Mama’s always looking out. Hashtag I got you.” Keisha crossed her fingers like Pablo always did and stamped the air. The PR on-set photographer snapped her hashtag gesture. “Send that t
o me,” she told him. “ASAP.”

  Mario pointed at a tall, lanky brunette, pulled her out of the lineup, and started applying light makeup, a fresh look for casting. Pablo walked around to check in and start dialogue. The cameras followed close behind, capturing every moment.

  “What’s the difference between casting and Instagram makeup?” the brunette asked. Half of her tinted moisturizer had already been applied.

  “On Instagram, it’s all about heavy foundation, baking under the eyes, over contouring, and exaggerating your features. You can’t go to castings like that. You’ll be laughed out of the room,” Pablo told her.

  Mario looked irritated. “But you need to keep up with the social media style of makeup we use on IG if you wanna become an influencer/model.”

  “I think we got that beat down. We already a big deal on the gram. That’s why we’re here,” one of the nearby girls quipped.

  “Don’t be so sure.” Pablo wasn’t having her know-it-all attitude. “Just because you were Miss Soy Milk back in your hometown—”

  “Soybean…Miss Soybean,” she interrupted and chuckled.

  “Soybean…Soy Latte, whatever. If you think you know it all, you don’t need to be here.” Pablo looked like an authority, but on the inside, his heart was beating so hard he could barely breathe.

  From the side of the room and out of camera view, Rachel gave Pablo the thumbs up. Joe nodded his huge head in approval. Behind them, a second camera had moved in on the drama.

  Grazing at the craft service table and sensing the tension building from across the room, Keisha swooped in quickly, as if a fresh tub of Häagen-Dazs had been opened. She blinked her innocent eyes at the unsuspecting model.

  “Hey, you know one of the first lessons I learned as a young model?” Keisha said in her creepy little girl’s voice. “Sometimes, you only get one chance to make an impression. And you made yours. Pack your bags. You’re going home. Now!”

  Mario froze. Pablo didn’t know where to look. Miss Soybean looked terrified. Keisha leaned over her and pointed her finger. “Move it.”

  Her face half made up, she turned to face the camera.

  “Zoom in,” Rachel whispered. “Go super tight.”

  The farm girl who was a big name in Wisconsin didn’t know what had hit her. She may have been a big deal in the cheese capital of the Midwest, but she stumbled away in tears. The other models reached out to touch her arm as she fled the scene, sobbing her sorry heart out.

  “Make sure to follow her and get an exit OTF,” Joe bellowed at Rachel, who was standing in complete shock.

  “Get her OTF,” Rachel mumbled into her IFB. A segment producer ran off the set.

  “What the fuck are we gonna do now?” Joe cursed at Keisha.

  Keisha narrowed her eyes. “Calm down, Joe. And secondly, watch your tone. It was great TV for our first episode.”

  “Well, I hope your Boy Friday here can come up with a solution because we still have to eliminate a girl at judging this week, and one every week till the last episode. You wanna fire other contestants outside our format, you see me.”

  Rachel walked up to where the trio was standing.

  “What’s an exit OTF?” Pablo asked.

  If Keisha could have sent Joe Vong off the set, she would have.

  “OTF stands for on the fly interviews.” Rachel’s voice was gentle, the tone condescending. “An exit OTF is the last interview a girl does before she’s sent to the hotel.”

  “Shh…we can’t let that out,” Joe hissed.

  “I thought you sent them home?”

  Rachel shook her head. “We can’t give them their cell phones back and let them go home. It would be all over social before our first episode aired.”

  “Our audience would know who was sent home and no one would watch. We use the eliminated girls with the active cast, whenever we go out in public, to maintain secrecy.” Joe knew the reality TV Bible. “Welcome to Reality 101, kid.”

  Keisha’s brow had rumpled up into a vast wrinkle, something Pablo had never seen before. “We need a code name for them.”

  “Have the crew call them bogies. They’ll never catch on,” Pablo gleamed.

  “Exactly.” Keisha snapped her fingers in their faces.

  “Bogie it is.” Joe and Rachel walked back to their makeshift video set up.

  He always seemed to know exactly what Keisha wanted to hear, Pablo thought to himself, smugly. They were such a great team. He couldn’t help but feel sad for the ultimate fate of the bogies to come, though. Stuck in some network sponsored hotel under lock and key, but there were worse places in the world to be locked up. Look at Keisha’s mother.

  The afternoon dragged on, but finally, all the models had their fashion party looks applied. Smoky eyes, contouring around the cheekbone, shimmery highlighter on the nose and chin. Like a proud Mama bird inspecting her chicks, Keisha walked up and down, scrutinizing the group.

  “You all look fiiiiiiiiierce.” She wagged her finger as if she was judging a drag ball in Harlem.

  Dropping his face into his tiny childlike hands, Joe cringed.

  “I’ve got another surprise.” Keisha seemed devilish. “You’ve all been invited to a swanky New York fashion party with noted editors and bigwigs from the rag trade. Dress to impress,” she emphasized. “Hurry back to your digs, because your ride will pick you up in two hours!”

  As if on cue, the girls squealed. Pablo refrained from covering his ears but made a mental note to buy some earplugs. He couldn’t shake the image of squealing piglets going to slaughter, now stuck in his mind. The models grabbed their overstuffed bags and new wardrobe and raced for the freight elevator. Down on the street, they piled into their stretched Hummer. A producer loaded in the front seat while a cameraman jumped in the back with the girls.

  The hidden Nest camera rotated from the spot where it was clipped in the air vent. Keisha had access to the girls day and night, and while standing in Laura Mercier’s office, she pulled out her iPhone and logged into the private server set up just for her. Pablo leaned in and watched as the girls dished.

  “Oh, my, God…I just wanna have a hot bath and go to sleep! Hannah kept me up with her snoring last night.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  “Then you were sawing wood.”

  “Hello? What about Keisha sending Natalie home like that? That was so mean.” They cackled like Macbeth’s witches.

  “They can only pull that stunt once. They wouldn’t have a show without us.”

  “My feet are fucking killing me. Do we have to go to some BS party? We just worked like a twelve-hour day.”

  “Do you think real Supermodels stay home when they have a chance to get their face out there?”

  Keisha looked at Pablo and pointed to Adrianna, who had spoken such wise words. “She’ll be our winner.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Keisha smiled at him and raised an eyebrow. “I don’t?”

  Two hours later, the models, in their swankiest glam—super high heels, super tight skirts, push-up bras, party touched up and perfected, if that were possible—climbed back into their flamboyant Hummer. Once inside the limo, their constant complaining of tiredness turned to excitement. The driver pulled away from their temporary home, the infamous Chelsea Hotel, and turned off 23rd Street and headed south on Seventh Avenue. The TV screen in the Hummer flipped on, and a taped message from Keisha began to play.

  “As a new model in town, you should sport your natural casting glow. You never know when you’re gonna be discovered. You’ve got this ten-minute ride to tone down your looks and show up at your destination looking model fresh. This is this week’s challenge. The judges will be waiting on the red carpet to choose the winner of this first challenge. Good luck!”

  “Why didn’t you say so beforehand?” Hannah yelled at the screen.

  Standing on the red carpet
all gussied up, Pablo and Keisha watched the girls on her iPhone live feed and they couldn’t help but laugh. “What fun would that be,” she said to him.

  It was a madhouse inside the Hummer. Two girls began to strip their gold Lamé off their frocks. One of the models began wiping her face with her sleeve. They peeled their eyelashes off and blotted their red lips. Adrianna, who’d worn her skinny blue jeans, pulled off her sheer black blouse to reveal the white tank top Keisha had given them earlier that day.

  “Aren’t you the fucking teacher’s pet?”

  “I’m no dummy. She gave us this wardrobe for a reason.”

  “Well, fuck you, Goody Two-shoes.”

  “Hey, it’s a competition.”

  Another model pulled antibacterial wipes out of her purse.

  “You a germaphobe?” one of the girls asked, as she began to take all of her makeup off, rubbing her skin pink and fresh.

  “I’ll pay you forty bucks for one of those,” Hannah begged.

  “Not a chance.”

  Things were starting to get ugly now. Girls started pushing and shoving each other so vigorously that Adrianna got elbowed in the nose. Blood gushed all over her clean, white tank top. The lone cameraman pushed in for a closeup.

  “Bitch.”

  “Cunt.”

  “You broke my nose!”

  “It was too big, anyway.”

  By the time the limo pulled upfront of Buddakan on Ninth Avenue, only a few models looked fresh. Most looked like they’d been run over by the massive Hummer they arrived in. Two Steadicams met the bedraggled contestants as they tumbled out onto the curb. Pablo and Keisha looked at their protégées and shook their heads, disappointed.

  “I’m gonna give Adrianna points for dressing the part, but blood really creeps me out. What do you think, Pablo?” Keisha turned her head away and tucked herself behind her silver-coifed fixer.

  “She looks the part–aside from the blood. I can only assume—”