“Miranda Kerr is on the Cover of GQ and I Am Sitting on My Couch: Where Did My Life Go Wrong?”


The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

New York Fashion Week, 2004-ish or some shit. I’m waiting backstage at the ___________ show, my skin all porcelain and wrinkle free, my eyes so full of dumb hope, my thin limbs so full of promise. “You fit in just like the other models,” the producer tells me. “You’re just like one of the New York girls!”

When you’re working in Los Angeles, you are—as my dad likes to describe the horror of being cast aside and fiercely rebuked—treated “like a redheaded step-child.” While I’m personally a big fan of the ging and bear them no ill tidings (I heard people in Australia are legitimately afraid of the fiery ones; this may or not be true. That being said, I am 50% Aus and I feel nothing inherently Redhead Resistant in my blood if that means anything at all. Which it doesn’t.) So yeah, what the hell was I talking about? COMPLEXES. MODEL COMPLEXES.


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