
I hear the music start. Lana Del Rey, how original. Everyone in the fashion district isn’t already using "Video Games" to make their clothing seem ethereal and unique. “Oh my gosh I love this song!” the model standing behind me shrieks. “You would” I say under my breath. The coordinator pushes the first girl out. When I say "pushes", I mean pushes. We are not treated like humans during a fashion show. We are personality-less dolls who have come to life for one hour only to showcase the new season of clothing that only rich old ladies can afford. After each girl returns she runs to her clothing rack and her outfit is literally ripped off of her and she’s shoved into the next look. It’s my turn for the runway. The only things I get nervous about are falling over and looking fat. I’m shoved onto the runway and sashay my way to the end. There are so many lights I can’t see shit. I have no idea how many people are there or who is sitting in the front row, all I care about is not falling. I stop at the end and pose. And by pose I mean look like a pissed off teenager. I strut myself back to behind the stage and run to my rack. Three people are now trying to get this fucking tight-ass dress off of me. I put my arms into the air and let them do all the work. I’m standing there naked and slip into my next outfit. I grab my shoes and don’t put them on until I have to. I get back in line and wait to do it all over again. The entire show lasts no more than 15 minutes. Days of preparation, castings and fittings all for 15 minutes. When the show ends the designer walks in front with all the models following behind. They tell us to clap, but fuck that. I’ll pretend to smile, I'll give you that. After the finale I run back to my rack, rip off my clothes and change back into the same Rag and Bone jeans I’ve been wearing for weeks. I leave my hair and make-up how it is because I love riding the subway looking like a freak. Of course no one gives me a second look because it is New York City. When I get back to my Midtown apartment I spend an hour brushing out my hair and scrubbing the thick layer of make-up off my face. I heat up a slice of pizza because fuck it.Follow Melissa on Twitter: @MelissaStettenPhotography courtesy of meinmyplace.com. Illustrations by Sam Taylor. Follow him on Twitter @sptsam or visit his website at samtaylorillustrator.com.Previously: Crash Landing at the Runway Show
