Pose.

That time I did film.

It’s just after one in the morning when the director says it’s time to take down the lights. We’d been set up in a midtown Manhattan office building shooting one of an infinite amount of indie films being produced in the city starring a handful of acting hopefuls. I was in the city to pursue concert production, but helping out the friend of an acquaintance who knew someone who needed someone on her film set was an exciting prospect as a nineteen-year-old. After all, who doesn’t like movies?

I begin packing up the gear. The director - a woman in her thirties - comes up to me to ask if I’m possibly free that weekend. I was. She gave me an address explaining that this time I’d be an extra. Not for her project, but for the project of yet another friend. She said to come wearing a dress.

I didn’t own many dresses. In fact, I owned two. One appropriate for Easter and another appropriate for Christmas. I went with Easter and made my way over to the SoHo neighborhood, flats slapping uncomfortably against the pavement.

What I walk in on is a little bit of a larger production. More cameras, more lights, more people. I text my contact and she comes out to meet me.

“Oh honey,” she said upon laying eyes on me. “You needed to leave Jesus at home.” Then dead seriously, “I need you to look like a prostitute.”

That’s when I should have left. But I was a college freshman. I needed to be building bridges, not walking off film sets.

I’m taken to a back room with many other young women in chairs getting ready. I’m handed a new dress. It’s strapless and very short. Upon saying I’m wearing a sports bra, I’m told not to worry. They can “tape my nipples down if it’s a problem.” I’m asked to get rid of my black stockings. I say I’d really like to keep them on. They ask if I’m willing to wear fishnets as a compromise. I say maybe. I’m asked about my shoe size. I say I can’t walk in heels. 

“You won’t need to walk,” I’m told. “We can have you sitting.” 

I’m then taken by a makeup artist who, with a kind smile, explains she’s going to fix my eyebrows. Up until that point, it never occurred to me that something could be wrong with someone’s eyebrows. She takes out a razor and starts gushing about what an absolute blank canvas I am. She says she knows exactly what my colors are.

I’d never worn makeup before. Didn’t know anything about it just like I didn’t know anything about making balloon animals. But I sat there trying not to be too stressed out and trying not to cause any additional problems. However, when the mirror was placed in my hands, it felt like I was going to be sick. 

It has never occurred to me to think of myself as too fat or too skinny. Too tall or too short. Too light or too dark. I view myself largely through a baseline of functionality that inevitably fluctuates with time and age. My ability to move, to lift, to grip, to see, to hear, to smell. My body is a tool to interact with the world around me. To relate. To achieve. And I feel best about it when all systems are green, are good to go, and are properly calibrated. It’s probably why I never formed a drinking habit. I needed to be in control. I needed to be aware of my personal space. 

I’d never before looked at myself and felt such a complete disconnect. Much less a disconnect quickly tipping over into disgust. I was looking in the mirror and it wasn’t my face. That deeply bothered me. It’s something I figured would deeply bother anyone. 

“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said and the makeup artist started to panic.

“Do you not like it? I can change it,” she said though my immediate thought was that there’s nothing you can change about having just shaved off half my eyebrows. 

I went to my contact there, telling her I was headed out after she’d finished gushing about my transformation in front of all the men with the cameras. She awkwardly pulls me aside and tries to talk me out of it. She explains the whole scene. It’s a club with the rich boy protagonist having a conversation with supporting characters. I just need to sit draped over the arm of the giant chair he’s in and avoid direct eye contact with the camera. Sensing my further hesitation, she adds that she can tell him not to touch me. 

I apologized profusely, left anyway, and discovered how difficult it is to get makeup off your face. 

The director for the initial movie I’d been brought on as crew for never contacted me again. And so concluded my film career.

My eyebrows, at least, would recover.