The first photo shoot for Harley was the week before classes resumed. I had no idea what to expect. Harley Moss called me on the Friday evening to tell me a car would be picking me up at nine a.m. the next morning. I was pleased and puzzled at the same time. How big a deal was a photo shoot?
"Are you coming?" I said to Craig.
He shook his head. "Harley never lets outsiders into a photo shoot, even me. He says too many people make the models self-conscious."
I got up at six and bathed and fussed with my hair, even though Harley had told me not to get my hair done or put on any makeup. Craig had a light breakfast ready for me. I was nervously sipping a cup of coffee when a knock came at the apartment door. It was exactly nine o'clock. I kissed Craig, who was naked, and shooed him into the bedroom. A liveried chauffeur took me out to a shiny black Continental and held the door as I settled into the rich leather.
He was a pale-skinned black man with short white hair. He looked at me through the rear-view mirror. "Ma'am, my name is Nigel. I'm to leave you at a salon on North Clark. I'll pick you up at noon. Mr. Moss said don't eat lunch. He'll have food."
Riding smoothly through the streets of the Near North Side in the gleaming limousine, I felt like a visiting celebrity. I wanted to wave in dignified style to the adoring people on the curb, rotating my wrist like Queen Elizabeth. But of course, no one paid any attention to my carriage or its royal passenger.
Nigel held the door for me again in front of the salon, and handed an envelope to a harried woman with iron-gray hair and an accent that sounded German. Her name was Greta and she was the owner. Although there were customers waiting, she led me to a vacant chair and went to work on me personally. She drew a photograph from the envelope, a woman who looked vaguely similar to me. The photo was covered with cryptic notes in black pen, with arrows pointing to places in my hair.
"These are Mr. Moss' instructions." She set the paper down and picked up her comb and scissors.
There was more to this modeling business than I thought. By agreeing to Harley Moss' terms, I was going to have my hairstyle altered and God knows what else. I mentally shrugged. I could tolerate that, but I'd heard that models always shaved their pubic hair. I worried about this for a moment, and vowed that if he wanted my pubic hair shaved or even trimmed, I'd break off our handshake agreement on the spot. At the age of thirteen, they'd shaved me for my appendix operation. I'd felt violated then, and I hadn't cut it or even trimmed it since.
But I was pretty sure that no one would ask me to shear my pride and joy--and Craig's altar of worship. I certainly wasn't going to let it be destroyed just to borrow a few dresses.
"What were you smiling at?" asked Greta.
"Oh, I just thought of something amusing."
"I can see why Mr. Moss wanted to use you. You have all the features he likes. He says he wants to make dresses for real women, not those skinny girls like Twiggy. During the war, I saw enough women that were all skin and bones, and it wasn't their fault. They were starving. But now those faggots in high fashion want to make women skinny like 14-year old boys."
"That will end my career before it starts," I said, grinning. "That's one fad I hope never catches on."
"That's New York and Paris. Here in Chicago we do things our way. Mr. Moss loves women who look like real women, the taller the better."
After nearly two hours of her chatter, she started to get on my nerves. But she finished by noon, as promised. I was astonished at what she'd done to my hair. It seemed even blacker and glossier than before, and curled in just the right places. When I moved my head, the hair bounced as if on springs.
"That is such a nice job. Do I tip you?" I only had twelve dollars with me.
She shook her head. "No. Mr. Moss has taken care of everything." She pointed to the door. "Your colored man is here for you."
Nigel's magic carpet swept me away to Fabulous Fabrics, on Wabash Street in the Loop. We double-parked just as an El train roared by overhead and made speech impossible. Inside, Harley thanked him and put some folded bills in his hand.
Harley led me to the back of the shop. "I like to get models to the shop relaxed and in a good mood, but don't be disappointed if I send you home in a taxi afterward. Paid for, of course."
Classical music drifted down a flight of stairs. Moss led me up to a large loft with rows of sewing machines and cutting tables. It was Saturday and the machines were deserted, but one end of the barnlike space was cleared and set up as a photographer's studio. A camera perched on a sturdy tripod, and a large frame held backdrops that pulled down like roller blinds. Six lights were arranged in a semicircle, focusing a brilliant field of light on the plain ivory surface.
In front of the seamless backdrop posed a woman with brilliant red hair and a spray of freckles across her cheeks and shoulders. She wore a low-cut, emerald green dress and matching heels. The photographer directed her in a crooning voice. I listened, but didn't understand the jargon he used. She was obviously a professional model and did this every day. But I was going to look like the amateur I was, with the photographer having to help me on every shot, pushing and pulling until he'd wrestled me into the right position.
The photographer clicked the shutter over and over, stopping to change film every couple of minutes. I watched nervously until Harley touched my elbow. "Eat some lunch, RoseAnn. You're going to find the afternoon pretty grueling, and you'll need your strength." He showed me to a table with a tray of sandwiches, some cut fruit, and urns of coffee, tea and lemonade.
I picked up a paper plate. "This is real luxury," I said, choosing an egg salad sandwich and several sticks of celery.
He shrugged. "I can't afford to do this every day, maybe once every three months. How did you like the hairdresser?"
"She talks a lot, but she works miracles," I said. "See?" I shook my head to demonstrate, enjoying the feel of hair flowing over my shoulders like a silken fluid.
"Good. It costs me thousands of dollars to put ads in the tribune and the magazines. It's worth investing whatever it takes to get the photography right."
I hadn't noticed the brunette nursing a teacup at a round table until she stood and came over to us. She was tall and lean, only an inch shorter than me. Up close, she showed the slight hardening of features that comes to women in their mid-30s, but her light gray eyes and aura of aristocratic elegance overwhelmed the minor tracks of time.
"Is this the new girl?" she asked Harley.
"Yes, dear. This is RoseAnn Perez. Don't you think she'll do well?" He turned to me. "RoseAnn, meet my wife, Rachel."
I shook her hand. "This is a great opportunity," I said, smiling.
Rachel Moss didn't smile. "Perez? You don't look like your surname."
