Boss Lady

Preparación

"Fabulous. More to the right. Face up. Darling, give me fierce.", the photographer encouraged the model.

We were backstage in the rented auditorium for a trial run of the actual annual show. The entire space had been converted into a shrine to fashion. Hair stylists, makeup artists, photographers, designers, event management,lights, stage design- everyone was here to prepare for the one magical night and I was with them soaking every bit of energy and entusiasm from the exceptional crew that I had collected.

Tori stood by my side as I have my approval for every piece that a model would carry on herself. Clothing was not beautiful unless one could carry it properly. It lost its charm and magnetism on the wrong models.

The ones selected for our show had been chosen very carefully. 15 of them were breast cancer survivors who would add much to the emotional value of the product. Who better to sell the story, than the person who had lived it, experienced it yet found the courage to rewrite it?

Other than that, there were so many plus-sized women, tall, thin, short, ugly and beautiful- yet all of them were magnificent in their imperfections, the strength in their gaze, the carelessly careful attitude,the playful seduction in their walk which would the audience in their thrall.

And my favorite person was opening the show. I was tackle-hugged by Evgenia Astakova who kissed both of my cheeks with bubbling enthusiasm and none of the reserve, many models showed.

"The new collection looks gorgeous. I am so honoured to be opening the show.", she squealed and I smiled.

"Trust me having you on the front line is a blessing for us."

She laughed and every single head in the room turned to look at her sublime beauty. Evgenia was breathtaking- half Russo-Turkish and fully gorgeous. Her mixed heritage had resulted in her warm mocha skin and her steely grey eyes. An odd combination but she made it work like no one else. Her hair was platinum blonde in a million shades of gold, and an angular, pixie like face. But, it that wasn't what made her striking. It was the diagonal slash across her face- a thin silvery scar, a patch of ugly raised skin that made her beauty so cutting. Because she had been cut by her beauty. Literally. Her youthful, feminine face had almost killed her once.

Evgenia Astakova had once been Evgeni Astakov. When she had come to the States, she had undergone sex change surgery which had been absolutely unacceptable to her conservative Russian family. Her step-father had apparently not wanted a boy who dressed like a girl and wasn't as manly. He had showed his displeasure by trying to mangle her face. She ended up scarred for life and with a spine-of-steel. Scar tissue was less sensitive to pain. Two years later she was slaying the ramp, as one of the first transgender models. The fashion industry had learnt some important lessons.

That enhanced her beauty to me a thousand times. Where was beauty, if it not in strength? And I liked to see a woman who had walked through fire and emerged stronger for it.

"Darling, I walk so few ramps for the people I love. Trust me, I wear what they want me to, walk how they want me to, smile when they want me to but when I wear what your girls have created, I wear it for myself. You are one of the very few who allow scars to be displayed so openly. It's empowering to not wear makeup to hide my scar on your stage."

And it was a rule that I followed. No girl was forced to hide their scars or imperfections with makeup on the ramp unless they wanted to. Let the world see the pain etched on their skin, the strength in their scars, the naked beauty in vulnerability.

"The scars you show on stage are nothing compared to the ones you can't show to anyone. I would like to be able to heal some of them. Your scars are a testament to your beauty. They make you who you are. Why wouldn't I display them?"

She sighed and squeezed my hand.

"You are a rarity, Sana. We are models. We are like cloth hangers. Designers don't ask for our opinions. We are expected to stand quietly and look pretty and show people we are perfect. Vulnerability is bad for business. That's how it works."

Of course, I knew it but that didn't mean I needed to do it to. Change had to start somewhere, right?

"Well, it doesn't work that way here. I like my damaged beauties. You add your value to our products. It's good marketing.", I say not wanting her to know how much her words got to me. On paper things might look shiny but they hardly ever were.

" And you wonder why everyone loves you?"

"Do they really?", I asked just to hear her say it once more. It wasn't everyday that I got to hear such high praise.

" You never force us to be anyone else on the ramp. We are not otherworldly beauties or untouchable goddesses above normal women. We are not the most beautiful creations. We are people. Imperfect people with stories and anger and rage and hurt. But we're still people. Other girls aspire to be us for something more than our pretty face. It's humbling to feel appreciated for doing something more than winning the genetic lottery or in my case the plastic surgeon's lottery."

"The genetic lottery isn't bad either. I would sell my soul to have your forever smooth skin. Damnit, Xenia I have wrinkles! WRINKLES! Can you believe it?!", I despaired.

" You can see my plastic surgeon at Beverly Hills.", she teased.

"God dammit! Women are supposed to age like fine wine. Why am I aging like sour milk?!"

Surrounded by women so much younger than was not good for my ego.

"And I am very offended that you suggested plastic surgery to your boss. I am paying your salary. Now tell me I look kick-ass.", I pouted only for show. I was damn awesome and I knew it.

"You always look kick-ass. In the immortal words of André De Costa, 'She could stand out in a crowd like a burning meteor in a sky full of beautifully dull, still stars. Where others were beauty, she were grace, where others winds she a hurricane, where others flames she with an inferno in her heart. She is a queen and she is my grace.' ", Xenia repeated and it swelled my heart to think that my proverbial 'godfather' was watching me from somewhere. That Xenia had cared enough to remember such words also pleased me.

" I thought he was a little biased when he wrote such flattering things about me."

"Maybe. But we are all biased about the people we love. ."

My smile could have dimmed the lights in the room.
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