"I'm lost in admiration Dude; I need you this much."
I’m speed-walking in a most uninspired fashion down Melrose Avenue, heat waves rippling up from the pristine sidewalk, hot breeze providing small relief to my sweaty forehead. God I need a bob, and please let her be blonde. No, not blonde, brunette. I already have seven blondes but it’s LA and every girl with a bathroom sink counts bleach as her life partner. Shit, did I put enough quarters in the meter? Did I put any in at all?
Oh god theres one, long legs…cute shoes…maybe, but? Forget it. Shes turned around and its all I can do to tear my eyes away from her enormously over-proportioned bosoms. H would hardly approve. Although I feel that it’s a priority to cast this show in the spirit of its hometown, It’d hardly do to turn our cutting presentation into a promo ad for the local discount plastic surgery clinic. She seems a touch vicious anyways, I’m feeling her icy cold stare from across the street. A quivering, snotty-nosed miniature dog peeks over the edge of her pink leather handbag.
Sending a mumbled curse in her direction I change course and cross the street, having spotted the legendary Fred Segal mere yards away. There must be legions of cute mid-western shop girls in there, vying for a shot at stardom. Wiping yet another trickle of perspiration from my forehead, I stride towards the ivy-entwined entrance, pausing only to pull cellphone from drooping bag and press it to my ear. (A trick I’ve developed- when hair model hunting in pricey boutiques, it’s wise to appear as if you are on one end of harried phone conversation. Walk inside with a burst of purpose, press the phone very tight to your ear, and in a loud voice say ‘I insist on booking Angela! Gemma is total shit and I only want her on second option if she has to be in the picture at all!’. Then start scanning the room. Most salespeople within earshot will think you are very important and are only wearing shabby, generic brand clothing because you have too much money and fame to give a shit about their magazine trend forecasts. This technique gives you instant freedom to stomp through the store at will. )
I’m pretending to examine the cashmere thread count of a pair of hideous women’s underwear when I spot her. She is my ultimate dream girl, my ethereal vixen, my Athena. Her hair is an untouched, radiant chestnut. It’s a terrible graduated bob (thank god, perfect for a makeover shot) that just grazes the tops of her shoulders. She’s folding lingerie behind the cash register, carefully stacking silky underthings…she notices my intense gaze and responds with a doe-eyed smile.
‘Hi there, are you finding every okay?’
Every bone in my body feeling conniving and lecherous, I smile back.
‘Hi, well, actually I wanted to ask you something.’
Awkward silence follows. Her eyes slide to her coworker and then back to me, probably considering her options for an exit. Wasting no time I light the fuse.
‘Actually, my name is Ryann and I’m the Casting Director for Bumble and Bumble, in New York City, are you familiar with the brand of hair products?’
She glances at her instantly eaves-dropping coworker and nods, smiling. Thrilled with the sought-after look of hope on my soon-to-be muse’s face, I continue.
‘We’re in town for a few days to give a special demonstration, a day of inspiration for the local stylists here that work with our products. I’m scouting the streets, looking for beautiful girls to cast as hair models for our demonstration. You’re perfect for it and if you’re interested, I can guarantee you an incredible cut. Plus we’ll pay you $500.’
My eyes search hers, mine searing confidence seasoned with desperation, hers oozing curiosity and a hint of newfound assuredness. Wait…just…wait…a release of withheld breath. It’s in the bag, I can feel it even before she leans forward on her well-appointed elbows and looks at me imploringly.
‘I would love to, can I bring my boyfriend backstage?’
We are in it together, head over heels.
