“Hey hun, do you wanna do back of house dressing and not all this shit?”
I was on the 3rd floor of Melbourne Town Hall, clearing up the racks and packing boxes of all the thousands of dollars worth of designer wear that had been on the previous shows. The way the items were treated, for the amount they’re worth, they should be heavily discounted once they’re back in store.
It was murky and dim, because Town Hall is like this few hundred year old heritage building that no one bothers to fix up properly but willing to pay thousands in rent because of it’s rich history. I was sweating heaps and when the offer came up, it was too good to refuse.
I followed the stylist to the HUB where the show was held. I had no idea which show I was dressing for until I saw PETER JACKSON emblazoned on the runway. what the..
I kept my cool and went backstage. Suits everywhere, every colour, every style. The stylist (who I swear is gay) gave me my instructions.
“The zips and buttons have to be unbuttoned and unzip so you can pop him straight into his second outfit right away, you’ll be pressed for time. Make sure the fly is zipped.”
I am dressing a male.
Omg I’m (trying to be) a good Christian girl and here you are asking me to dress a male.
I speak whale even better than male.
What am I doing. I thought I was doing the Alannah Hill show. What is this. Alannah Hill is tomorrow omg.
So I continued to keep my cool and nodded to gay stylist 1 as he continued his instructions with the others.
Then the models walked in.
Omg when did God create such beautiful people. How come. Why. When.
When I see above average people at events or walking on the street, I do my best to avoid because I’m so shy and I blush more then I talk, avoiding is so much better. Now I’m in a room with like 15 of them. What. Six packs everywhere.
I couldn’t fangirl, they weren’t Bieber, but they were too good to not fangirl either. But I was there for a job and I had to keep a straight face. omg my insides had like 10 ferris wheels doing 100 km/h spins.
What’s worse, during rehearsals my head felt so light and I had to close my eyes for a bit to get going.
I texted my friends and sent them sneaky snaps, every girlfriend I know was envious of my position and here I was with almost-going-to-faint feelings. I was continuously snapping and chatting to keep me from fainting. everything is okay.
I didn’t know if my feelings were because of too much good-looking genes in a room or the lack of oxygen. I always thought they were a figure of speech but my head-spin was real.
Nonetheless, God pulled me through. Gay stylists 1,2,3,4 had to come in and help a few other fumbly girls to dress the models. I dressed my model who was probably semi-pissed at me for doing things a bit too slow (later found out he’s actually semi-famous and has done many runways, so I’m quite crap). Sorry Shayne it’s my first time and I am a good Christian girl who hits boys more than dressing them so please sorry not sorry, i’m not zipping you, zip yourself.
No, I didn’t say that aloud but I did make him zip himself. I only buttoned/unbuttoned him and that’s it. I did saw some thirsty as girls zipping and unzipping the other models but omgoodness I can’t, I’m already fainting.
Anyways, fashion week shenanigans over and I’m back to my normal self. I don’t know if I’ll be dressing men anytime soon but after that show I’d say I’m pretty confident with suit styling and everything else but zip your pants moves.
So that’s the story of how I got myself a Peter Jackson back of house position.