The Face Page #3

A Story about a lost girl.

• Fiction
• Diaries

								

	Mitch has been dating Lorne, a man who changes his age the way he changes his hair. I am pretty certain his natural color is a light auburn. Over the past few months, he has appeared in his red Pontiac Firebird and Black Saturn with auburn, brown, strawberry blonde, and bleached blonde hair. The bleached blonde did not look good on him. He suffers from jaundice, a condition he developed from hepatitis B. 
	Lorne claimed to be a photographer when he met Mitch outside the local community center downtown. She was leaving a modeling recruitment event at the time. I am convinced he followed her there. I attended one of these events with Mitch myself, though modeling did not capture my attention. The recruiters considered me too tall, curvy, and medium-boned for the gamine look they wanted. Mitch was their thing. She was signed up to three agencies immediately and also obtained a meeting with a film extra talent group out of Vancouver. She was very excited. 
	The recruiters had warned her to invest more money into her modeling portfolio or to forget future offers. She had arrived with a stack of Polaroids. The industry standard was to hire a professional fashion photographer for at least thirty different shots in different makeup looks, hairdos, and clothing. The topic bored me. I could not stand the idea of changing my makeup, hair, and clothing so many times. I have no idea why modeling is considered glamorous when it is tedious. 
	I was asked to sub for some missing models on the runway for the annual fashion show at the mall. I have a size nine feet, and the shoes available were six to eight. I was expected to shove my feet into these smaller shoes. There was no one to touch up makeup and we had to do it ourselves. I just barely fit into the dresses, as my rib cage was larger than the average models. 
	At the mall, there are a few thin, gangly, flat-chested, and tall women walking around. It must be hard to find someone to meet this standard. Back then, they wanted a 5"6 to 5"8 model who was willowy, with straight hair, a small rib cage, no hips, and small breasts. This look is also hard to find. Most women are not built according to industry standards. 
	Mitch wanted to pursue this career. I lacked interest and went on with my job shadowing as a medical assistant and signed up for computer courses at college. I was offered a full scholarship for Social Work in the forensic area, under the leadership of the Vocational Health Sciences program, but I refused. My parents were irate. I did not want to take these courses. I took a second look at her. 
	The fact that I focused on was strategic. It was the first time I saw her in front of me. I was picking up a drink and noticed how she stared at the row of cups she drank repeatedly. A carafe of coffee rested on the side table. 
	Waiters were in the back, musing over her high consumption of cigarettes and coffee. She had asked for a large bowl of sugar and two bowls of cream. Each cup required five sugars and six creams. I wondered if she drank coffee with cream or cream with coffee. She seemed slightly amused and annoyed by the attention.
	"Hi, how are you? I have seen you at the mall," the server asked her.
"Oh, probably. I am looking for a crushed velvet outfit and will probably have to order it. I can't find it there," she commented. "You probably saw me earlier today when I was shopping around. 
	"The mall is cotton ginny looks," the server commented.
	Something about her interested me as a friend. It was not surprising for me to learn that she was seeking a career as a model. She was the look. Thin, lithe, and gamine-like, Mitch moved with a cat-like compulsion. Mitch's skin was tan and smooth. She looked up at me and smiled.
	I sipped on my soda and wondered if she was well-connected to the party scene. Mitch talked casually about her wardrobe and the boys she knew. She wore her new-wave suit and adjusted her tie. The matching cap fell over her eyes, lined with auburn and permed bangs that she was growing out. The look was tacky, but even Mitch could make an ugly uniform look attractive.
	My other friends, Gord and Terry, were thrilled that she had noticed me. Mitch seemed up to something, thinking and rethinking her plans constantly. We all wanted to know. She had an active, crafty mindset.  Her cobalt blue eyes flashed at me. I noticed how she told customers what to order and spent most of her time telling servers about pouring drinks and cleaning trays. It was a fast food establishment, and it was usually busy. This Sunday afternoon, it was slow.
	"I could work here. This would be easy for me. I am already managing them. They should put me on the payroll," she mused. 
	"I can't see you working here," I commented. "Too many bells and whistles for you. I think you would get distracted. 
	"Can I have an application, please?" she asked the server. 
	The server came back with an application. She handed it to me and told me what to write on it.
	"Write down that I want to be a manager and work three to five nights a week. I want at least thirty hours a week. I have references," she instructed me. "This is my business card and you can attach it. Tell them to hurry up as I am scouting out other opportunities."
	"Have you had any luck?" I asked her. "Last time I checked, you were interested in modeling and working on a portfolio."
	"I booked some private showings and a regular runway gig at the mall twice a month. So far, I haven't had luck with commercial work," she commented.  	
	Mitch handed back the application to the server. She smiled slightly and knew I was going to suggest we hang out. I saw her after hymn singing on Sunday afternoon as usual. Still, she was most interested in joining. However, the church required underwear to be worn under her short skirts, which she refused to do.
	"Now you like to sing? Can you get me into the choir?" Mitch asked.
	She had brought up the subject I was trying to avoid. I rolled my eyes behind my head and said she should go through Ben for assistance. I had nixed her request to join the choir. Ben, our friend and choirmaster, had put in her name for recruitment. An audition was no longer required, and this was a sudden change by the leadership. 
	Why she wanted to join was beyond me. Perhaps I was a gatekeeper. I had a musical education. Mitch did not. I was always a singing gatekeeper. Who should music accommodate bad singers without underwear?
	Mitch was an unpredictable girl. I think she summarized that my group was not going to provide the hard drugs she craved, and utilized us more for sympathy and attention than access. She was about to turn to street drugs and pharmacopeia.

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