By: m.g.
I’ve just completed reading a “GQ” article on the life of a young male model, and my envy for his racy lifestyle knows no bounds. The peaks and valleys of this tragically handsome 21 year-old are highly appealing; so appealing that I glued myself to the living room recliner, reading each line intently. Although this ambivalence of admiration and jealous appears to be rare, my affinity for the glamorous world of modeling actually appeared years ago.

In 1996, I had entered the “rebellious” stage of my life so common to teenagers. I began to eschew anything popular, including social scenes and any music that received radio play. However, my antithesis for the mainstream wasn’t all consuming, as I couldn’t quite stay away from designer clothing labels. Adorned in flashy threads and sporting an unconventional hairstyle of long, torch-like twists, I accompanied my mother and grandmother on an excursion to a local health & fitness expo. Having walked aimlessly past booths and spandex-clad experts, I made my way to the lobby area of the convention center and plopped down near a window. It was then that a chubby, yet stylish woman approached me and asked if I’d ever considered modeling. “Here, take my card”, she said. “You have a good ‘look’.” Equally confused and overjoyed, I gazed at the information and quickly stuffed it into my coat pocket.

What seemed like a gleaming beacon for a young black male proved to be nothing short of a mirage. I attempted to contact the agency to set up an appointment, but was greeted with nothing but long periods of holding and lots of red tape. Then, in true skeptic fashion, I abandoned the opportunity, convinced that I was merely one of thousands with “looks” who had fallen into a similar trap. While the disappointment was great, I viewed my scouting as a starting point for future openings. Oh, how wrong I was.

Reading the “GQ” article stirred a muse within me that I certainly thought had perished long ago. Rather than actively pursue modeling, I’ve spent the last few years searching for loopholes in my dream. For example, I’m convinced that at a modest six feet, scouts would surely be looking for a few extra inches of height. Also, my build has gone from wiry to robustly “top-heavy” over the past few months. What if I’m asked to model anything other than pants? That would spell disaster. Moreover, I have yet to be approached by another scout since that expo event. Lately, friends and associates have asked if I’ve ever considered modeling, I’ve taken their comments with little weight. “What do they know?” I’d often think. Perhaps in shaving my head bald and outgrowing my boyish innocence, I’ve abandoned the “look” that once could have projected me into stardom. Maybe the dream is dead.

With a new year upon me, I’m planning to make an effort to enter the realm of modeling. I’ll keep my eye open for local talent searches, adhere to my label bias, and continue working on my physique. Also, I’ll do everything in my power to avoid the lurking suspicion that lots of modeling agencies are more bent on gaining capital than they are locating actual talent. If I’m going to gain access to this lifestyle that I crave, I’m going to have to work at it. Besides, why wouldn’t I want to pocket absurd amounts of money, spend lavish sums on clothing, and indulge in one-night stands? Wish me Godspeed, townsfolk. It’s time to dive head-first into glitz.