Cheryl Diamond - Model

T here are 6.5 billion people on this planet. Sixteen of them are supermodels.

Every year hundreds of the most beautiful people travel to New York from all over the earth to become models. Most of these potential models are eighteen. I was fourteen, and this is my story.

Manhattan stretched for miles outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of IMG Models, one of the worlds superpower agencies, and the first one I approached. Behind the grim-faced receptionist were ten desks where agents, also called bookers, were glaring at computer screens while talking animatedly on the phone with clients. Yes, she can go to Paris, but only on the fifteenth. Sorry, but hes booked solid till November. The general air was one of a sophisticated boiler room.

Twenty top New York City modeling agencies hold weekly open calls, where aspiring models are appraised by sharp-eyed agents, who decide if they want to sign contracts for representation. I was waiting to be seen, along with about thirty other potential models. A congregation of admirable bone structure if ever there was one. It was my first open call, and I was discouraged to see that all the others had portfolios, also called books, filled with professional photographs. Nervously, I clutched the backyard snapshots taken by my devoted mom. A young agent, dressed intimidatingly in black, came out and began flipping quickly through the books of the people who had arrived before me. She spent about thirty seconds on each person, then said, Sorry, but youre not what were looking for, as she handed portfolios back. Adrenaline buzzed through my system. The immediacy of the moment and the amount of surrounding competition made me seriously realize for the first time how much I really wanted this. Then it was my turn. The agent glanced quickly at my pictures and asked, How old are you?

Fourteen.

Hmmm, she said thoughtfully. I like your look. Come on, I want to measure you.

I stood straight against the measuring tape on the wall, thrilled that they were paying more attention to me than they had to anyone else. Well, thats a pity, the agent said. Youre only five-six. You have to be at least five-nine. But you are only fourteen, so youll probably grow, and if you do, come back. She returned my snapshots, and I walked to the elevator. She smiled and called after me, Make sure you grow, okay?

Ill get right on it, I said with a laugh. By the time the elevator closed, the agent had already dismissed two more people with, Youre not what were looking for.

I walked out into the hot August sunshine and looked for a blue Taurus on the busy street. It came screeching around the corner with my dad, a Viking look-alike, at the wheel.

Hey, pal! he said as I jumped into the car. My dad is always smiling; he is probably the most positive person alive. Howd it go?

I have to grow three inches.

It can be arranged, my child, he said with an elaborately sinister expression, wiggling his eyebrows till I giggled.

Hey, Dad, I said. Why does that sign say wrong way?

Because, pal, were going the wrong way up a one-way street.

During the next week, I presented myself to ten more Manhattan agencies and was told to grow as soon as humanly possible. My age was also a factor, as many large agencies did not want to take the time to train and develop a teenybopper with no modeling experience.

One agency remained on my list.

I took the subway downtown, since my dad was attending his realestate convention, the real reason we had driven from North Carolina to New York.

Platinum Models commanded the entire fourth floor of an elegant West Side building. Modeling agencies do not occupy a space, they rule it. I took in the gleaming hardwood floors, large windows, and fully equipped refreshment bar, the glass-fronted fridge stocked neatly with Snapple and little bottles of Starbucks Frappuccinos. Five other potential models were already congregated hopefully.

This was one of those defining moments that I would look back on years later, wondering if my life would be less screwed up had it not occurred. The receptionist, who looked like a boxer and contrasted sharply with the decor, squinted at me. Here for the open call, right? he said gruffly.

I smiled Right.

Okay, well you can take a seat over

Ohhh my Goddddd, someone with a thick French accent screamed. I looked up and saw a man pointing at me, wide-eyed. He was wearing a hot-pink beret.

Ooh, la la, he squealed, and ran around the corner, only to reappear a second later with a huge smile. Dont move! he yelled. Then, holding down his beret, he disappeared again, calling, Rico, Rico, mon dieu! Rico!

Everyone stared openmouthed at the boxer/receptionist, who grimaced and said, This is what I deal with every day.

Who was that? I asked.

He chuckled. That was Claude, the head booker. I think he really likes your

There she is, Rico! Claude reappeared, dragging with him a man who was shorter, less pretty, and sans beret. They both marched forward, and Claude grabbed my hand and started pumping it up and down. I am Claude, still pumping, and this is Rico. He looked at Rico, who was standing a few feet away, stroking his goateed chin and staring at me with narrowed eyes. He didnt say a word. Claude finally released my hand and asked, What is your name?

Cheryl Diamond. I started to laugh. The whole scene was funny, but I think it was the pink beret that triggered the giggles.

Oblivious to my laughter, Claude said, Can I see your book?

Well, all I have are these snapshots.

He took them, looked through a few, and said, Ahh, good, you are photognique , that is all that matters. We will get you professional pictures. He handed my pictures to Rico, who looked at them, narrowing his eyes even more. He still hadnt said anything.

Come. Claude grabbed my hand. You must meet the owner. I looked back and saw Rico glaring at the other potential models with deep suspicion. He shook his head at them, turned on his heel, and stalked after us, leaving the boxer/receptionist sighing in resignation.

As we rounded the corner, a redheaded man no more than five feet tall came sashaying toward us. He peered up at me and exclaimed, Fab-u-lous! What is this ?

This is Chrie, said Claude proudly.

Cheryl, I corrected.

Claude smiled Yes. Chrie. That is what I said.

Claude gestured at the redhead, saying, This is the owner, Thom.

Hiiii, girlfriend.

Ummm, hi. I was starting to laugh again.

Do you have pictures? Thom asked.

Rico has them, I said. Rico, who was standing stone-faced against the wall, wordlessly handed the pictures to Thom, who looked through them quickly and was instantly all business.