Free Still Growing: An Autobiography by Kirk Cameron Page B

art of Food Props to ensure there was not a deformed O in the bunch. Sometimes he even sprayed them with shellac to really gloss ’em up. We were often warned not to eat the props.
    All food designed to look perfect to the viewing audience was called “hero food.” To create a heaping bowl of chili, marbles were hidden under the gruel to give it that extra chunky vibe. Hamburgers required “hero” pieces of lettuce and tomatoes. The art of melting a slice of cheese over the corner of a perfect burger is something film students can probably major in. The 50 replacement hero burgers were kept under lock and key like precious rubies. Dozens had to be prepped, as food wilted quickly under the bright, hot lights and dry air.
    “Mmm, this burger tastes better than the ones they make in heaven!” I said, doing my best to really sell the awful scripted line.
    “Cut!” the director barked, and that was my cue to regurgitate the hunk of meat into a spit pail. Instantly a team of professionals jumped into action.
    Each person on the crew carried out an important part of the entire production. There were very specific departments, each belonging totheir own union. If the food props guy was asked to move a book from one side of the set to the other, he refused—it wasn’t his job. He had to get the set dresser to move it. If the actor touched the book, it became the responsibility of the props person. (Yes, props are different from
food
props.) There’s a little saying that helped me keep things straight:
If it’s on the set, it’s set dressing. If an actor wears it, it’s wardrobe. If someone touches it, it’s a prop. If it’s smoking, it’s special effects. If it forgets its lines, it’s an actor
.
    Directors had trade secrets for selling product. During my white-water rafting Wrigley’s gum commercial, the director taught us how to insert the gum into our mouths so it would fold in a visually pleasing way. We learned how to take a long piece of gum and get it to hit the tongue just right so it collapsed perfectly between our (fake flipper) teeth.
    It didn’t matter what it was we were selling, we had to look perfect and the product had to look perfect. Fortunately, we had lots of tricks up our sleeves to make that possible.
    It didn’t take long to learn that in Hollywood, make-up wasn’t just for girls anymore. The bright stage lights made it necessary for even us manly men to put a little color on our faces. I sat in a tall director’s chair, sometimes with my name ironed on the back—I felt Hollywood-cool. (If Evian water had existed in the ’80s, I’m sure I would have demanded it with my bony index finger pointing to the sky.) It was great getting all that attention—people hovering over me to brush my hair or powder my face. I didn’t have to do anything but sit there and enjoy the pampering.
    The next room I entered smelled of Aqua Net. Hairspray was all the rage in the ’80s. Even boys were under the influence of blown-out Farrah hair.
    At some point, my face ceased to be as clear as a cloudless sky. Zits started popping up left and right, threatening to end my career as a doe-eyed pitchman. It wasn’t so bad during the pre-teen years. But when I reached the age where it looked like sun-dried tomatoes were sprouting on my face, it was far more humiliating. “Wait a minute!” the make-up artist said before dipping into an industrial-sized tub of concealer to cover all my zits.
    It only got worse when I became famous. In public, people would come up and say, “Wow, you don’t have that many zits on
Growing Pains
.” As a result, I spent a lot of time in my room, hiding from those comments and the embarrassment of my face.
Photo Op
     
    Magazine photographers often came to my house on the weekends when I had more time to pose for their hunky photo spreads. My sister Bridgette said she hated waking up on a Saturday morning, bleary and wanting to stumble to the kitchen, to electrical cords snaking