Cute.

Pretty.

Hot.

Sexy.

Beautiful.

Gorgeous.

Flawless.

Goddess.

All used to describe me. I was everywhere. Cosmopolitan. Esquire. Vogue. Glamour. You’ve made eye contact with me on a billboard. You’ve seen me in commercials.

I’m also terribly impatient. Winning the genetic lottery bestows certain privileges, many of which can turn you straight into the bitchiest diva if they are overindulged. I deserved them for all the kale smoothies I gagged on.

I had scheduled a shoot with my favorite photographer, Nico. He was one of the few that respected you enough to not bend you over a table. To any prospective models, ladies, if you find him, keep him.

It was supposed to be a straightforward session, a promotional shoot for a national retailer. They are in every mall and they sell shirts on Amazon. No crazy boots or green lipstick this time. Only store signs.

My high heels clacked on the wood paneling. My entourage flanked to my sides. People who wanted to matter, but didn’t. You know the feeling. The copious amount of camera wires and tarps proved hazardous as I balanced precariously over them. The air conditioning left the room feeling chilly and distressing.

“Oh! There she is! How are you my love?!” Nico’s exotic accent complemented the bourbon on his breath. Not the smell of a drunk, the smell of quality. Refinement. I liked that in a man.

“Where’s my chai tea?! Where is it?!” My irritation was paramount. They should know this already.

“It’s coming dear. Melissa!” Nico shouted, looking up above me. “Get her her tea, please. And promptly.” I heard a disgruntled groan behind me as Nico kissed the back of my hand, his finely groomed beard tickled.

“Shall I turn you over to our stylist?” He asked. His sunglasses reflected my face in the lenses.

“Where’s my fucking tea?!” I repeated.

“You’re right!” Nico stormed off. I heard screaming, shouting, angry crashes, clothing racks thrown, and then Nico, returning, tea in hand. Melissa or whoever she was followed close behind, red-faced and puffy-eyed. I threw off my massive fur coat as I nestled the tea in my hand. The flavor was bland, but not enough to throw a tantrum over. I had to get to work. The day would be long and unrewarding as is. But, as Duran Duran once said:

“Wider, baby, smile and you’ve just made a million.”

I sat in the cosmetics chair. An overly nervous stylist, a woman, started applying foundation, eyeliner, mascara, and lipgloss as another started tinkering with my hair. After an hour or so, I was ready. Nico walked over, arms outstretched.

“Oh, what a beauty! Truly a marvel!” He cooed. I smiled, knowing his assessment was watered down. I strolled over to a clothing rack. Simple shirts, jeans, jackets, and shoes. Melissa stood in a corner, staring daggers into me. Fuck her. Men always looked in lust. Women always looked in jealously.

I examined the clothing selection more intently. Fucking really? I was so much better than this shit. I begrudgingly threw on an outfit, consisting of a shirt, belted jeans, and sneakers. I stepped in front of Nico’s camera and started posing. Simple. The flashes of light with each snap erased my negativity about the outfit and gave me an immense feeling of joy.

“Yes girl! Work it!”

After several minutes and constant camera flashes, Nico got me into another outfit, this one a basic black pantsuit paired with high heeled leather boots. The more photos that were taken just fueled my insatiable ego. Finally, I was motioned to strip down to the nude. Why? This wasn’t that type of shoot.

“Umm, are you sure?” I questioned.

“Just do a couple for me, baby!” Nico asked, his face begging in anticipation. Oh, of course. The jacket.

“Sure.” I relented as I peeled off my clothes. Why not? It was the end of the day. Nico handed me the black jacket and asked me to put it on. The jacket, as always, was shiny and felt heavy in my arms. A cloth hood was attached to the collar. I slipped my arms through the sleeves and flipped the jacket up and over my shoulders. This was Nico’s favorite jacket to have me wear. It was a personal pleasure for him. Worry suddenly shot through my brain as I settled my frame into it. The lining felt…

Strange. I shrugged the feeling off. A mistake.

“Great! Flip your hood up!” Nico began snapping photos. I posed, blew kisses, and really tried to sell the bad girl look.

“Ok, now flip it down off your shoulders and arch your back!” Nico asked. I rolled my shoulders back to remove the jacket.

Nothing but leather creasing. What the hell?

I tried slipping the hood off my head. The unmistakable pain of hair being pulled stabbed into my scalp. I squatted down and winced, rubbing my head.

“What’s wrong?” Nico asked, his face popping out from behind the camera lense.

“I can’t get this jacket off!” I gritted my teeth in frustration. I started flailing my arms wildly, the metal zippers clinking. Panic began to work its way into my chest and throat.

“Hold on, let me help you!” Nico walked over and placed his hand over the hood. He pulled.

“Ahhh! Fuck! Stop, you’re hurting me!” I screamed. Tears sprang to my eyes, my hair follicles on fire. My chest felt weighed down, as if an elephant found it a comfortable resting spot. I couldn’t breathe. I felt the cool, smooth leather under my finger tips. It crinkled and squeaked with my movements. I collapsed in a heap on the floor, now in a full fledged panic attack.

Nico hushed my entourage and all other personnel out of the room as someone called 9/11. What was this? Some kind of sick prank? I felt the jacket start to form around my body like a second skin.

I ugly cried, my tears blocked my vision. Suddenly, I heard a scuffle. Nico shouting. A door lock clicking.

“Melissa! What the fuck are you doing?!” A surprised shout. I looked up, seeing Melissa, the assistant, standing over me. Her face was reddened, her fists balled tightly. I shook my head in confusion. Nico pounded on the door.

“You spoiled cunt. Here's your chai tea.” She said quietly, and without emotion. Then suddenly, she snatched the hood in a death grip. The pain was so intense I howled. I felt the hairs in my head begin to pop out of my scalp. Warm wet crimson began running down my face in jagged lines. I saw Nico on the other side of the door, hands over mouth, helpless.

I kicked and screamed, but Melissa was stronger.

“This is for all the years of abuse!” The saliva molecules splattered in my ear canal as she pulled harder. I felt my face begin to tear like wrapping paper. I felt a warm ridge form in my forehead as the hood was peeled off with my skin and scalp.

The pain was so unbearable I couldn’t make a sound. My hands flew up to where my hair had been.

Sheer horror.

They came back slimy and bloody.

Degloved.

I stumbled around, my vision red and murky. I caught a brief, blurry glimpse of Nico, hands on knees, projectile vomiting. My knees gave out as I face planted onto the floor. I chipped a tooth on impact as I heard footsteps approach me from behind. I felt a shoe slam down viciously in the back of my neck.

“Bitch.” Melissa spat.

I gasped as the pulling resumed. I realized, to my absolute horror, that the jacket was still stuck to my back. My skin began to tear at the shoulder blades, each cellular layer was ripped and shredded as the jacket took my skin like the pelt of an animal.

I screamed louder than I’ve ever screamed. The sound rang off the walls. I reached behind me helplessly as the sleeves were jerked backwards. The knuckles on my hands were now exposed, the joints coated in blood.

I wanted to die.

Melissa did. The police shot her between the eyes when she wouldn’t get off of my lifeless corpse. According to the subsequent police report, Melissa, the disgruntled fashion assistant, had booby trapped the lining of my jacket with epoxy adhesive, the world's strongest glue. My skin had no chance. She knew I’d wear the jacket, I always did for Nico. As soon as my skin made contact, my modeling career was over. Melissa knew that was the real pain. The physical agony was just icing on the cake.

I don’t know when I lost consciousness. I know it was before the police arrived. I had to be resuscitated in the ambulance. I was given over five emergency blood transfusions. My body didn’t have enough skin left for a graft, so I was given an allograft from a medical cadaver.

My body rejected it.

I layed in a recovery bed for over six months. Since I was injured during a shoot, the client paid for my substantial medical expenses, which ended up bankrupting them. After what felt like a lifetime, the bandages were removed. I shrieked.

Horrid, ridged, cavernous, abominable scars embedded themselves deep into my deformed face. My scalp, now bald from the complete removal of the hair follicles, was a wavy mess of uneven lines, raised pock marks, and jagged scarring.

I hid myself in my hands. I couldn’t bear the sight. I cried myself to sleep. I couldn’t work, not only as a model, but anywhere. I would be seen as a freak. Heads would turn, gossip would flourish, and assumptions would be made.

Vanity is only skin deep.

Weird.

Gross.

Ugly.

Nasty.

Hideous.

Disgusting.

Horrid.

Abhorrent.