Four weeks ago
Mine is a foot whose year-round natural habitat is the Doc Marten boot. My wardrobe comes almost exclusively from those well-known designers Messrs Oxfam and Barnardo, supplemented by forays to London street markets. My knowledge of the modelling world is restricted to what I can glean from a free read of Vogue and Hello! at my local Spar, in between buying bottles of beer and packets of Choc and Nut Boasters.
Over several beer-buying forays, I have registered the following facts: models are very thin; very tall; very lovely; usually very young; and wear very expensive clothes, which are sometimes beautiful and sometimes downright silly. I think it is unlikely any of them shop at Spar.
Three weeks ago
My colleague, Robert O'Byrne, draws my attention to a picture of a red-haired model at the spring Dolce & Gabbana show. He says that red hair is "hot". He points out that I have red hair and asks if I would like to model for his page. I am very amused. Point out that I am several decades older than the model in the picture; several inches shorter; and several thousand grand poorer. I leave out the obvious fact that I look nothing like her. And that I shop in Spar.
Robert is persistent. "You could write about it," he says. "What it's like to model for a day." Journalism leads one down many unexpected alleyways, but I had not thought it also led one onto the catwalk. In the end, I say yes.
One week ago
Robert and I spend a morning choosing clothes to borrow for the shoot. It's a heady sensation to walk into Whistles, Rococo and BT's and pick out clothes without so much as a glimpse at the price tags. Good practice for when I win the Lotto.
Over the morning, I try on dresses, skirts, shawls, more dresses. Robert prowls the rails with an expert eye, choosing different combinations of colours and textures and layers. We spend about an hour in each shop. I learn to dress and undress like Speedy Gonzales. My own clothes, lying in a heap in the corner, look sadder and sadder by the minute.
The day before
Before today, the one and only time my nails have ever been varnished was by my aunt Maine when I was 10. But today I am at Frances Bergin's flat, looking at about 200 bottles of nail varnish on her table, while she files and buffs and does all sorts of arcane things to my nails. Nail extensions are glued on. I wonder if I will be able to use the keyboard with them. (Answer: hit and miss.) Then a layer of fibreglass gauze, then two coats of clear undercoat and two coats of a gleaming red nail polish with the wonderfully OTT name of the Queen of Sheba. This takes almost an hour and a half.
The nails dry. I cycle home in the pouring rain. One of my housemates is in the kitchen. "Look, it's Cruella de Ville!" she says gleefully. Taking my contact lenses out that night, I momentarily forget about the nail extensions and stab myself in the eye. Writhe in agony.
The morning
Stab myself in the eye while putting in lenses. Writhe in agony. Cycle to Whetstone hairdressers in Temple Bar at 9 a.m. James Mullen and his assistant Carlo Daniele are all set. I am beginning to feel like a human jigsaw, composed of different body parts: nails, hair, face, feet etc. To James, I am hair.
Spend next hour with head in basin, having treatment oil worked though my hair. Keep meaning to write in notebook the names of all the different oils and other things James and Carlo are furiously rubbing through but by now, make-up artist Susan Cheeseborough has arrived and I have become a Janus figure: face and hair.
For the next hour and a half, James curls my hair with a heated tong. We are supposed to be at the location at 11.20. James curls like a man on the Medusa mission that he is. There are now about 300 hair pins in my head. "Three hundred and fifty," having my hair curled, as it is naturally curly anyway. I am facing the street and so cannot see the mirror. Several curious and friendly passers-by gaze in and grin.
If it is strange having my hair curled, it is stranger to be made-up. I own three lipsticks, all of them of several years vintage and wear some maybe twice a year, with no other make-up. Susan has arrived with quantities of luggage I associate with first-class Titanic passengers: steel boxes and cases and a large black lace bag. All of it contains makeup and most of it seems destined for my face.
Behind me, Carlo holds up pieces of hair while James curls, curls, curls. In front of me, Susan applies foundation and mascara and eyeliner and other things I don't remember. My notebook is still in my bag and even if I had it, I wouldn't be able to look down to write anything in it. Everyone is concentrating furiously. I am the only one doing nothing: a hack without a notebook. I feel twitchy.
11 a.m. - James asks Carlo to call a taxi for 11.30.<
calls and tells us they can't make it there by that time. While Susan paints my lips, James runs out onto Parliament Street to hail a passing cab and ask it to come back at 11.30. Then he comes back and curls, curls, curls.
11.35 a.m. Cab arrives. I take one brief look in the mirror. I look like a glamorous, fluffy and aghast toy sheep. I also think I look much, much older, which hurts what remains of my vanity. For the rest of the morning, I do not look in the mirror again, otherwise I know I will bottle out of whole thing, which at this stage would be a minor disaster, since so many people are involved. I begin to understand the consequences of models' tantrums and no-shows.
11.40 a.m. John, the taxi-driver, keeps looking at me in the mirror. "I know SFA about hair," (he is bald), "but you look quite something," he says.
11.50 a.m. Arrive at location. Get out of the taxi. People stare. Scurry inside and up the stairs. Robert and Paddy are already there. Notice with alarm that I am already expecting doors to be opened for me. Ask Robert where the champagne is. Several times.
We start with the Dolce & Gabbana outfit. Four pairs of eyes, plus the camera lenses, are all staring intently at me. For every outfit I model, Paddy shoots an entire roll of film, all 36 frames of it, which makes a grand total of 144 pictures taken just for this page. Paddy and Robert both give instructions for every outfit, which involves moving feet, hands, head, eyes until I feel like I'm in a freeze-frame cartoon.
I have been wondering if I could ask James and Susan to wait in another room, as I feel wildly self-conscious by now, but realise this is impossible. At every new pose, James rushes in to spray and re-pin, so that every new camera angle will make the hairstyle look fluent. Susan appears with powder and yet more lipstick, at more infrequent intervals.
Photo shoots are full of tricks. Airbrushed out of this one are the hands of Robert and James, gallantly holding up a horrendously heavy gilt frame, while I peer out from behind it, trying not to giggle at them.
Posing gets a bit easier as we go along. I try to edit out everything in the room and pretend there's nobody there. Sometimes, the shoot feels like a tennis match: being asked to look from one place to another, to keep life in the movement. I decide it would be wise to write up the copy before looking at the pictures. I have still not looked in the mirror.
1.50. We're finished. Everyone claps, but there's no still no champagne! Go back to the office and exercise my nail extensions.