Free No Lifeguard on Duty: The Accidental Life of the World's First Supermodel by Janice Dickinson

yet again. First stop: Eileen Ford. I’d been there half a dozen times already, but I figured if I made a pest of myself someone would cave and give me a break. There was also a slim chance that someone might recognize me and mistake me for a ravishing creature they’d seen in a magazine. That is, a real model.
    Eileen and her husband had launched the agency in
    1946, out of their home, and had gone on to create the most recognized name in the business. Eileen was known as a strict disciplinarian, a control freak. Jerry was quieter but very sharp. It was Jerry who negotiated the first big-money contract in fashion, way back in 1974, for my hero, Lauren Hutton. I was hoping he’d scale new heights with me.
    A dowdy assistant took me back to a tiny office and started paging through the new photographs. They were pretty good, actually, and she seemed impressed. She took me over to see Monique Pillard, one of the bookers.
    Monique was very friendly. She was a little overweight and had a very thick French accent. She told me she liked what she saw, and it was clear she meant it. She also had the power to do something about it. I thought I would burst with hope. Just then, the far door opened and Eileen Ford walked into the room. In the flesh.
    “Who’s this?” she said, looking me up and down with obvious displeasure.

    56 J A N I C E D I C K I N S O N
    “Janice Dickinson,” I volunteered. I offered her my hand, but she didn’t take it.
    “I’m sorry, dear. You’re much too ethnic. You’ll never work.” She let herself out through another door, but she wasn’t done with me yet. Before the door closed, I heard her say to no one in particular: “My God, did you see those lips ?”
    I swear to God, I almost died. I was just a kid, for Christ’s sake. Did she get a kick out of humiliating me?
    What kind of sick people was I dealing with?
    I took a few deep breaths. Once again, pain curdled into anger. Too ethnic? Wasn’t Beverly fucking Johnson on the cover of American Vogue ? Who the hell did Eileen Ford think she was? Sure, there were some narrow-minded assholes out there who thought a black cover girl meant the Great Exotic Apocalypse. But not Eileen Ford. Surely she had enough sense to see that the business was changing.
    This endless bullshit about the all-American look—it had to end sooner or later. And didn’t they get it? Blond? Blue-eyed? That’s not American, you idiots. It’s Scandinavian.
    I had to fight the urge to run after her and push her out the window. Then it hit me. What if she’s right? I suddenly imagined myself back at the Orange Bowl, waiting
    tables—at age fifty. It happens. To lots of people. Was I going to be one of them?
    I ducked into the bathroom and looked at my face. Yes, my lips were big. And my hair was a little on the frizzy side. And those brows could use some serious tweezing.
    And I didn’t have much in the way of cheekbones. And—
    and and and and and . . . I bit my lips together to make them look smaller. I could hold that pose. I looked good all of a sudden. Well, okay, not really; now I looked like a thin-lipped Polish mutt. I left the bathroom and found Monique waiting for me in the corridor.

    N O L I F E G UA R D O N D U T Y 57
    “I am so sorry,” she said in her thick accent. “But I have a feeling our paths will cross again.”
    “What should I do?” I asked her. I was falling apart. I was not going to cry. Not not not.
    She looked around to make sure we were alone, then
    whispered: “Wilhelmina.”
    I went out into the street. I was upset and angry. Being upset never did shit for anyone. Being angry, on the other hand—that could work wonders. If you used it right.
    I walked to Wilhelmina’s, at 37th and Madison. I was going to make it. Nothing was going to stand in my way. I was getting angrier by the second. Fuck you, Eileen Ford.
    You’ll be sorry. It wasn’t my first time at Wilhelmina’s, either. The receptionist smiled that familiar smile: You