My best girlfriend Jennifer dabbles in jewelry. Her friend, acting as a broker, is helping Jen break into the trade show circuit and get more serious about her jewelry sales.
One recent directive was for Jennifer to print a catalogue of her wares for the buyers to see. She told Jen to get models wearing the product, because the shots of just the pieces were not enough.
Ocho, forced to model, too
Jen asked me to help find models. I volunteered my family. (Sidebar: kinda funny, because I doubled as the talent coordinator, location scout, makeup artist, wardrobe stylist, set dresser, prop master, and lighting technician. Ha ha ha!)
I'm a hand model!
After Claus got dressed, I told him to come into the bathroom. He looked at me warily. He hates, just hates, primping. I sprayed hairspray into my hands and rubbed it into his hair.
He went to leave. "Come back, I'm not done with you," I said. I applied cream to his dry skin.
He tried stepping away right after I finished. "Not yet," I said. I put lip balm on his lips.
He wanted to dart off. "No. One more thing," I said, and pulled out tweezers to work on his mono-brow.
If you've ever clipped your pet's nails, you can visualize the look of impatience and grief he was giving me. He was totally rolling his eyes and making faces.
"What do I get for this?" he asked.
"Jen is our friend. You're doing her a favor," I reminded.
"That's not what I'm talking about," he answered, grinned, and raised a slightly-less-uni-brow.
The reluctant model
I leveled a gaze at him. "I'm living with your mother for six weeks," I flatly stated.
Face deflated. Hopes, too. He said smally, "Oh. Pluck on. Or should I say, Pluck off?"