the dying head

The night before last I had a moustache glued to my moustache and I was not kissing another moustachioed man nor was I paying lip service to an exceptionally hirsute woman. Allow me to explain.

I look across the table at a woman in a gown with narrow sloping shoulders, a high neck collar and a wide hat brimmed with lace and silk. I glance nervously at her through spectacles, a light grey bowler atop my head, and at my neck a round collar shirt secured by a suitably large and exaggerated bow tie. We chat over glasses of beer. A man reaches over us and injects some beer from a syringe into our glasses to replace the dying head. How did you end up here? She asks me.

I met a woman on the street some time ago. We were walking our dogs. We got to chatting and I happened to ask her what she did. I work for a casting agency, she replied. Just as we were about to go our separate ways, she asked if I’d be interested in going to her office and registering with her, there and then. It was a block from my place and I had the time, so I thought, why not. My dog and I followed her and hers to the office.

Pictures were taken, details exchanged and in the weeks to come I received a succession of phone calls inviting me to tests.

Two weeks ago in a gap between classes I found myself with a free afternoon. A call came in. Would I be available for a test? Yes, I submitted. The offer? An advert for BEER. My weakness.

I found myself getting increasingly and frustratingly nervous as made my way to the test.I pushed open the corrugated door that led into the studio and found myself being searched over by the eyes of several model types of either sex.

You’re here for the test? Good, fill out this form will you?
Down go my details. But what is this? Weight. In kilos? Height, waist and neck in centimetres. I find myself lost in my own geometry.
The game is up and I return to confess I don’t have the solution to such searching equations.
Ah, I see. You’re a gringo – she notes from my ID number.
Don’t worry, you can go ahead for your pictures now.

Ok, stand just there. Head up now. Nice big smile. Relax the shoulders. Big smile.
Good, now a great big smile - please. Ok. Done! You can go now.[Inside that sickness I feel from forcing a smile. The impossible masquerade. I leave somewhat flushed and low of self esteem. I don’t belong here, why did I even bother going?]

Hello. Is that Christopher?
Yes.
Hi, it’s the agency here. You’ve been chosen for the Bohemia job. Congratulations, it's your first job…..

Cut to this pretty young lady and I in a bar in Victorian dress in a bar in the East End of Sao Paulo at 4 am in the morning surrounded by 10 or so models, a photographer, 3 photographer's technicians, an artistic director, two make up artists, three costume stylists and a myriad lights and flashes, all writhing in a sargasso sea of cables. The director orders me to take yet another sip of beer and I chuckle and pass comment with my drinking partner on the tremendously unreal nature of our current state of affairs.

I awake around lunchtime on the same day to pick out the glue left behind by my false 'tache.