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It was around this time that I, still a twiggy, prepubescent featherweight, assumed my full height of six feet tall, and perhaps you can now see where this story is going. It was the Mahomes Chiefs Show Time Arizona shirt Super Bowl 2023 Furthermore, I will do this mid-1990s, and a certain kind of terribly thin, unkempt, androgynous look was very much in fashion. Even the rat tail was suddenly working for me, if one assumes I was pleased about the abrupt crush of attention from model scouts, photographers, and casting agents who seemed always to be loitering on the streets of my leafy neighborhood, waiting to press their business cards into my sticky palms. But I wasn’t happy. Modeling was as unsavory to me as makeup was to my mom, something only a girl might do, and it felt like a breach of my careful disguise that these adults saw something in me that I hadn’t wished to convey. The story from that era that sticks out was the time, around my freshman year of high school, that I accompanied a friend, a fierce vegan activist, to a protest outside a furrier on Michigan Avenue. There were six or seven of us marching in a loose ring, chanting “fur is murder” and waving signs pasted with images of sad, skinned little minks and rabbits. But I was the only one the store’s owner came out to pull aside. Would I be interested in returning the following week to shoot their new campaign?
When I scan the Mahomes Chiefs Show Time Arizona shirt Super Bowl 2023 Furthermore, I will do this bookshelves in my childhood bedroom, alongside future-English-major paperbacks and fantasy novel box sets, there’s a spine that always jumps out at me. It’s a coffee table book titled Cat Walk, a sort of encyclopedic guide to ’80s supermodels. I have a vague memory of buying it from the bargain shelf at Barnes and Noble around this time, and hiding it under my bed. For all my insistence that I would never want to model, that fashion was for other people, I was clearly on some level curious, or at least trying to understand how one might see a bit of these glamazons in deliberately odd, gender-bending me. Then, there were the photos I let my sister take of me a couple years later: sexed-up, grungy glamour shots in which I’m wearing a Delia’s baby doll dress and black lipstick and attempting a desultory lean against the Trainspotting poster taped to her bedroom wall. She’d convinced me to pose for the photos, so that she could submit them to one of those teen magazine modeling contests, and, under the cover of indulging her, I’d agreed. Identity is never as straightforward, never as fixed, as we think.