Free Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes by Kristi Lynn Davis Page A

for going through with it and knew I had run my best race. It didn’t matter whether I made the cut or not. Those other dancers who had frightened me so weren’t that much better than I was after all.
    Lo and behold, after a few days, I received the good news: I got the gig! Maybe I do have enough talent to be a dancer, I conceded. Who knew?
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    I returned to Detroit elated with my exceptional experience in the Big Apple. Plus, I was going to Switzerland to do a show! Life can change in the blink of an eye, however, and almost as quickly as I’d gotten the job, it was snatched away. “I’m sorry, but the show had to be cancelled due to work-visa problems,” phoned the producer a couple weeks later. Although it was disappointing to drop my dreams of dancing among snow-capped mountains, chalets, cheese fondue, and Swiss chocolate, my immediate audition success had given me something far more valuable: the confidence to give it a go as a professional dancer. “Change of plans. I’m moving to New York, pronto,” I informed Jenny, who was ecstatic.
    “Come in August and we can do this month-long modern dance workshop with Jennifer Muller’s company, The Works,” she said enthusiastically. Not only had I never heard of Jennifer Muller, renowned artistic director of Jennifer Muller/The Works and former principal dancer with the Jose Limon Company, but I was only vaguely familiar with modern dance from the select performances I’d seen while in college. They blew my mind. The movements were bizarre, often ugly, and told a story or made some sort of social commentary. I often found myself thinking, “What on earth was that all about?” It wasn’t the smiley, easily palatable entertainment I was used to. It seemed to be more of an art form and an acquired taste like Stilton cheese, which to some people really stinks. I found modern dance intriguing and refreshing.
    Modern dance brought with it new names to learn: Martha Graham, Merce Cunningham, Paul Taylor, Alwin Nikolais, Murray Louis—famous modern choreographers. In spite of my lack of modern dance training, I was game to learn. Maybe the workshop was just the jumpstart I needed.
    This time I vowed to arrive in New York more prepared, with headshots being my number one priority. My best friend from high school, an actress herself, turned me on to a photographer in Detroit to do the deed. I felt silly having my picture taken. Who did I think I was? “Big smile! Lotsa teeth! And tilt your head a little to the left. Eyes open wider. They look a bit sleepy. That’s it!” the man coached. “Now let’s try a few non-smiling ones. This would be a good time to change clothes if you brought another outfit.” I jumped off the bar stool and made my way to the small dressing room. Presumably, the photographer was trying to get a few photos suitable for more serious actress roles. I had never thought of myself as a serious actress. Anything but. In my high school musical theatre experience, I had always been cast as the funny, dumb, pretty sidekick.
    I took off my lime green silk blouse and replaced it with my pale pink sweater, wondering how to make a non-smiling face that wouldn’t resemble a prison mug shot or my embarrassingly ugly driver’s license. “Am I supposed to make love to the camera? I can’t do that!” I practiced facial expressions in the mirror: Serious. Pensive. Intense. Intriguing. Flirtatious. “Oh, God. I look ridiculous!” Finally giving up, I returned to the studio surrendering my photo fate to the expertise of the photographer.
    The great thing about photo shoots is the oft-used strategy of taking a gazillion photos, so you are bound to get one that’s usable. Despite my discomfort in front of the lens, I discovered a radiant smiling shot and, miracle of miracles, even a decent non-smiling one. “Hey, I look pretty good,” I admitted with a slight flip of the hair and a taller stance. Then, per my actress friend’s instructions, I