I was a tall girl, taller than most of the girls and boys, even in high school. I'm still tall - 5'9". I used to hate being the tall kid, I used to wish I could somehow make myself smaller. Teachers used to jokingly suggest that I could be a basketball player. I didn't even like playing basketball and I hated gym class unless we were doing gymnastics that day. I once had an English teacher in Junior High who, in a diatribe about body types and what certain ones could and couldn't do, pointed to me (in front of the whole class) and said, "you couldn't imagine Mel here, flipping around doing gymnastics like Jessica (pointed to the petite cheerleader sitting next to me)." What he didn't know, was that Jessica and I had probably had been taking gymnastics lessons for about the same amount of time. I started lessons when I was five and, I could flip around just like Jessica.

By the time I had reached about 11 or 12, the jokes about me being a basketball player turned into comments that I should be a model. This seemed more favorable to me. I never thought of myself as pretty enough to be a model. Though, I figured if people thought I could be a model, maybe I could fool everyone into believing that I wasn't a tall, skinny, frizzy-haired girl with a space between her two front teeth. When I was 14 or 15, there was a model search, with a national agency, at the mall. There were literally hundreds of girls and women waiting for their chance to be interviewed with the possibility of being a model in New York. I can't recall what the hell I wore, and much of what they said. Though I do recall being disappointed that, according to this agency, the proper height one needed to be to a model in New York was 5'9" and at time, I was only 5'7". I recently read that supermodel Kate Moss, is 5'7"... I guess someone made an exception for her.

This modeling agency did call me for an interview for the following week. My Mom went with me. She assured the the woman interviewing us that I could still grow a few more inches as my grandfather was 6'. The interviewer was ecstatic that I had been a dancer since I was 3, meaning I was physically active and didn't have any pesky weight issues. They also thought my dance background would be helpful in my ability to walk down a runway. Thinking about it now: how much coordination does it really take to do this? Then, the interviewer asked how well I tan in the summer. She was happy to hear that I didn't tan at all thanks to my Scottish/Irish heritage. Her exact words were, "dark skin doesn't photograph well..." then later corrected herself saying that "tanning makes ones' skin tone uneven.." hence the dark skin not photographing well comment. Next came a question about my hair - my long, thick, sometimes course, curly hair - the cause of much swearing and ponytail wearing. The interview asked if I could "do something with it." Her suggestion of me "doing something with it" was along the lines of straightening and/or having it chemically relaxed. Which is funny because every hair hairdresser I've ever had, has told me that women pay lots of money to perm their hair to look like mine and here was this dumb bitch telling me to get rid of it. This modeling agency wanted me to sign up for modeling classes, which meant I would've had to drop dance and gymnastics lessons - that was out of the question.

After that humbling interview, I went to the now defunct, Rhode Island Modeling. I recall walking into the owner's office and seeing a sign above the door that read, "think thin." The owner at this agency convinced my Mother to sign me up for a one day model workshop so that I could see what the modeling world was all about. So off I went, one Saturday morning, to the modeling workshop to learn how to walk on a runway, and to stand there and look pretty. I've never felt more out of place than I did that day.



The thought of sneaking away crossed my mind several times during the course of the day. I knew pretty much right away, that I was nothing like the other models. They had all modeled prior. They all seemed pretty much about modeling and not a whole lot of anything else. Modeling was their life. There were four of us that were teenagers, there was a guy and a girl in their early twenties and then there was the thirty year old who looked forty (at least to me she did). This woman looked like she was wearing every ounce of make-up she owned and possibly every hair product - this wasn't the 80's it was the early 90's. Our first lesson of the day, started with us learning how to make facial expressions and striking poses in front of these floor to ceiling mirrors. I could've done this in dance class and gotten more out of it. I guess the 'lesson' was learning how we look doing different things? I remember one guy literally crawling on his hands and knees on the floor, in front of the mirror, making these crazy faces. Another lesson included how to walk on a runway, we even got music to walk to, and they had a fake runway for us to practice on! At least they fed us lunch. Lunch is sometimes the deal breaker. I once had a summer internship in Newport that I hated, but loved to walk to Touro Park to each lunch. Lunch was the best thing about that job,that and leaving at the end of the day.

After our lunch, we learnt how to put on make-up. I've never been much of a make-up wearing type of gal, I've always associated it with performing, such as in dance recitals, and not every day use. I'm sure the older woman had to chisel off her first layer to get this new layer on. I had no idea what was what, which was okay, because we had an instructor to help us future dykes and gay men apply concealer, foundation, powder, highlighter, shadow, and lipstick all with a q-tip and a sponge. The straight girls were done in seconds and needed no instructions. And since we were all made up like cheap whores, or at least that is how I felt, it was then time for our photo shoot!

Thankfully the photo shoot concluded the model workshop and then I could gather my things and get the hell out of there. It also concluded any interest I ever had for modeling. Sure the pictures came out alright. They gave my Mother the contact sheet and not the actual images which seemed pretty shitty. A few years later, I seen one of my former model workshop classmates at an auto show, I think he was there representing the agency, handing out flyers. When asked if I was still modeling, I said, "hmm no... I think I want to go to school for fashion design instead."

Now, I use myself in my art, but its not about being perfect, and thin with straightened hair. In my photographs, sometimes I am just a character, in costume, its more play and having fun. Sometimes I'm me. Its not about living up to someone else's standards of beauty. Its not about what is designating something that should or shouldn't be captured on film or on canvas. I let it all show, scars, frizzy hair and all.

The book, "Look at My Ugly Face" by Sara Halprin, continues to inspire me to write about my experience with beauty. I was reading this chapter about scars - the visible kind. There were these women who were ashamed of their scars and felt it effected their physical appearance in a negative way. For example, one woman sought alternative treatment for her thyroid cancer so that she could avoid the scar, on her throat, because she was already self conscious about another scar on her body. She didn't want another scar. I can't believe that the pressure in society to look a certain way would push a cancer patient to take seemingly foolish measures. Thyroid cancer is curable with the removal of one's thyroid! True, the person is allegedly fine now.

I don't mind my thyroid surgery scar - or any of them for that matter - I have a faint mark on my thigh where I spilled hot coffee, and one on my stomach where I had to have a birth mark removed. When I had the birthmark removed, I was totally fascinated with them cutting my skin off and stitching it up. I had to refrain from constantly touching the stitches because it was the first time I had ever had to have stitches. I was slightly less fascinated with the incision on my throat (no stitches but skin glue) as it hurt more and made movement difficult. I was once told that my thyroid scar is a 'wicked scar' by someone who had a fetish for scars. I've never felt a great attachment to my alleged attractiveness, so maybe I've been lucky in that sense. I've always doubted people's opinion on how I look, I may be my own worst enemy but when I was diagnosed with cancer I thought I'd lose my hair and my first thought was, 'it'll grow back, right? and hey, I can finally have that shaved head look that I've always threatened to have on bad hair days!' I idea of having a scar on me for life was the furthest thing from my mind.

My scar is a lucky scar. If I weren't so mortified by the goiter that having hypothyroidism caused, I probably wouldn't had that first surgery to remove the enlarged part of my thyroid. They wouldn't have found my cancer early. I hated the goiter, while my Mother claimed no one could really notice it. I knew it was there! I was always afraid someone would notice it and think it was an Adam's apple. I had to suffer with it for years because removing it was considered 'cosmetic' and my health insurance wouldn't cover its removal. I would hide it as much as I could with big necklaces, turtlenecks, and scarves. After about five years of having that horrible thing sticking out of my neck, it grew more! Since I was (and still am) on medication for hypothyroidism which was supposed to prevent it from getting bigger, the doctor was able to justify surgery to the health insurance company.

Now I'll go weeks without jewelry. I'm not totally self conscious on occasions where my neck couldn't be hidden, like at the beach, yoga class, or having sex. Most people don't even notice the scar which has faded to a faint line on my neck.

I am currently reading "Look at My Ugly Face" by Sara Halprin. It makes me think back to many things... My mother worrying (more than me) about my appearance. She feared ridicule from my classmates, if I didn't look a certain way, like she experienced due to her overbite. My classmates still picked on what they thought "easy prey," the skinny (read frail), big eyed, quiet/shy girl. Yet I had boyfriend after boyfriend, while my Mother's obsession with how I looked reached manic proportions. I recall her once vigorously brushing out my curls after a mud hair treatment to make my hair, I don't know, less frizzy, less curly? She claimed my hair "was in knots." I think the "knots" where just my curls. The result of her brushing my curly hair was that it frizzed out. She proclaimed the product a failure to make my hair "normal." What was "normal" I couldn't have told you. She made me try hair product after hair product in hopes of a miracle cure to my wild curls. Nothing short of shaving my head will cure them. Along with her obsession with my hair, my mother also became concerned about skin care regime. She would buy skin product after skin product claiming the few pimples I did get as a tween/teen were due to the fact I washed my face with Noxema. One of the products she made me try, burnt my skin so that it was red and blotchy for a few days.

I learnt early on what a hoax/joke the beauty process was. I think somewhere around 15, I rebelled against it all. I found grunge/alternative music that made it appear that it was okay to look like crap if even your a girl. The girls in the Nirvana's "Smells like Teen Spirit" video looked perfectly accepting of how they looked. I wore men's clothing, I ditched the make-up, I wore mismatched clothes on purpose (that drove my now ex-boyfriend insane). I made the most of my long frizzy curls in barrettes, braids, splitting my hair into sections and making a bunch of knots on top of my head like Bjork in the 'Big Time Sensuality' video.



I began emulating male artists as much as females. No one scoffed at Eddy Vedder with his unkempt hair - maybe his mother did, but I didn't hear about it. People, for the most part, thought he was cool back in the 90's. My ex-boyfriend wanted to be him, and I kind of did as well. I had reached the point where I didn't want to simply just attract men or women. I wanted them to like me for my beauty and brains. And most importantly, I wanted to be on equal footing with men and boys. I could ask boys out - a concept that nearly drove my female family members insane, while my female friends cheered me on. One would think that my family knew right then, I was never going to grow up to be a stereotypical woman. Yet... it took years for my grandmother to stop telling me about places I could go to meet nice guys. And my mother has finally stopped encouraging me to wear the eye make-up that makes my eyes itch. I suppose itchy eyes are just part of the female ritual I was supposed to be part of... I wanted to be beautiful, there's a part that still does, but sometimes its such a pain in the ass, and not always worth it.

I got this link from facebook , its all these quotes from Kim Gordon. This one is my favorite:
I don’t feel old. Most people don’t think of themselves as the age they are. It’s different when you don’t work nine to five. Asking when I’ll retire is like saying, “When are you turning your brain off?"

and ps. Kim Gordon, where the hell are you "heavier than I should be" ???!!! Last time I seen a Sonic Youth video I was thinking damn, I want to look that good now never mind when I hit 50. I suppose just because your in the spotlight doesn't mean you can't be your own worst enemy.

I'm currently reading this book on beauty and body issues, maybe every woman should read it. Its called "look at my ugly face" by Sara Halprin. So far it brings up some very interesting points like the beauty myth of the lithe, young,white women being the beauty standard around the world and how some women have had to come to terms with that and others who defied it.