My name is Alice Johnston and I’m the headline top model of the Copenhagen Fashion Week. This is a day in my life.
06:12: Today starts early with a nourishing vitamin water (only 0.3% fat) and broccoli vapors. Then I practice my facial expressions in the mirror: angry, moody, wronged, grumpy, unimpressed, apathetic and my favourite: Kristen Stewart.
08:30: Snack consisting of two pieces of gum (I sin as I’ve brought the sugary kind from home) and more water. It’s important to get energized for the long trip down the catwalk.
08:43: Just before going on the catwalk, security evicts one of the girls by mistake. The designer is angry. Can’t these people tell the difference between homeless and hipster? Geez.
10:25: Talk with the lady who hired me for the show this afternoon. Unfortunately, she’s unable to pay me cash, but she can promise with at least two glances from Donatella Versace. She is, of course, in Paris, but it is still better than last year, when I was paid in discarded knitted shirts by Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings from Sussex – all of size small – all too big for me.
13:15: I recuperate with a slice of pineapple from a tray with fruits presented by one of the designers. Kinda irresponsible considering how many calories are in it. I still manage to get into a pair of latex leggings, size 8-years-old.
13:27: Another designer leaves the show in anger. His model had forgotten to smile to the camera. She had forgotten her line: “Cheese.”
14:44: After a full hour with the make-up artist, giving me the Africa-meets-backwater look, I am getting dressed in the so-called “Third World dress”, consisting of over a million strands of hair from Indian children, gold-woven silk and a very long train depicting Aung San Suu Kyi. No high heels, so that’s a relief.
14:59: Just before going on stage the manager comes back-stage and complains that the toilets are constantly occupied and staff has to cross the street. Also that the sound of vomiting is disturbing to some of the audience.
16:53: Finally I get a break and sit down with the Financial Times that I hide in a Vogue-magazine to avoid snide remarks. Yesterday I told one of the other girls that I do my own taxes, and she was so shocked she accidentally ate a slice of white bread.
17:57: I come across yet another angry comment about the Fashion Week’s sick beauty ideals from some lardy lump, weighing at least 105 pounds. I don’t understand all the commotion: If you’re happy with your fat, flabby, stout and dwarf-like body, why do you even care?