A Model's Diary: Being a Paul Mitchell Princess

By Syntia Zeni
Friday, Nov. 26, 2010

Author's Note: Psst! This is only one part of my three-part series on the beauty convention. There was a lot of exciting stuff going on, so make sure to check out my next two parts -- including an exclusive interview with the son of Paul Mitchell himself!

The Casting Call

An assortment of models sat primly on heavily cushioned, faded Pepto Bismol pink chairs, legs crossed and thin black high-heels bobbing nervously. It was quite a mix: tall girls, short girls, voluptuous girls and bone-thin girls, girls from the Orient and girls from the Sahara, girls with snowy skin and girls with caramel skin. Some were quiet and some could be heard from across the room, while others focused their attention on twirling their hair or picking at their dresses or twiddling with their phones. Simple black dresses were the common denominator, with only a few daring choices here and there splashing out color from the fidgety mass of darkness. On every chest was carefully placed a white sticker, their manicured fingernails delicately pressing on the edges and smoothing out the wrinkles. On each sticker a large number was etched out in black permanent marker. Mine read 49.

We all stared ahead at the interns; an eerie pair of lookalikes with their matching half jet black, half bright blonde bobs and black Paul Mitchell shirts. They said little, their hands always busy and their eyes constantly flickering across the table, not once lifting to look at you even as they monotonously told you to sign in, take a number and sit down. At 6 o'clock the dreary twins simultaneously gathered their things and disappeared to the back of the room in a silent sweep. Suddenly the door swung open and an entourage of colorful and eclectic people came rushing in, each individual a work of art in their own right. Their hair was a testament to the art they had devoted their lives to, each person perfectly coiffed in a style or color completely different from the others. Tattoos were rampant and vibrant, accentuating their hair and edgy clothing. They seemed to move together in a surge of creative flow, as if they were all pieces of some grand moving tapestry, each intertwined and counter-dependent.

The Paul Mitchell team picked through the crowd of anxious models like birds descending upon bread crumbs at the beach. With a divide and conquer mentality, the team quickly worked their way from the front to the back of the room. They ran their fingers through each girl's hair, examined the roots and ends, and asked the same question over and over again: "What limitations do you have about your hair?" I winced every time I heard a girl reply, "None! You can do whatever you like!" knowing the repercussion of such a liberating statement in the presence of a Paul Mitchell artist, always ready to cut, color and create.

At the end of the hour all of the girls had either slumped out of the room in a defeated haze -- or had run out with contracts in hand and wide smiles. Those who had been chosen to model for Paul Mitchell at the Premiere Beauty Convention gabbed on as to which show they were called for. I walked out of the room slowly, fingering the sheet of paper between my hands, reading the printed information carefully. Six in the morning? This was not going to be as easy as I had thought.

Early-Morning Fashion Call

6 AM came much sooner than I had expected -- much sooner. Parking near the Orange County Convention Center was impossible -- even at that ungodly hour I had to park a couple of blocks down. The convention center was dark and quiet; its booths covered in cloth and tied down securely, its mega screens dead and cold, all the blow driers and microphones and speakers silenced. I wandered through the ghost town in an early morning daze, trudging across the expansive fair of beauty products in a 6-inch heel march of death. I was headed towards the prep room, a special area for the models and the stylists with sinks and tool and dyes and whatever else they needed. I finally got there to discover that Paul Mitchell didn't use the prep room like everyone else. Exhibition room 313 had been rented out entirely for Paul Mitchell's own personal prep room, and was, of course, on the other side of the building.

Three flights of stairs, two wrong turns, and a chit-chat for directions with the janitor later, I had finally found the room. The minute I walked through the door I was slapped in the face with energy and sound and lights, far different from the dead convention floor. Hairstylists buzzed about with half-finished models in tow, blow driers hummed in the background in competition with someone's blaring iPod. Salon sinks outlined the room, a few rows of chairs for waiting models were clumped in the middle, and in one corner a spread of different food and beverages was cleverly organized. I signed in and immediately was swept away into a chair for preparation, deft hands buzzing about me like a cloud of gentle bees. Soon I found myself sitting in the center in a plastic chair, my hair tied into a million ridiculously tight buns all over my head. Apparently it was a new style of dying hair that I would be helping them present on stage.

The Show

In white Paul Mitchell aprons, black leggings, and black stilettos, we caused a bit of a stir as we journeyed from the secret prep room into the main convention center to the colossal Paul Mitchell stage and surrounding booths. There were five models in my group; each had their own stylist and each stylist had their own specialty that they were displaying to the crowd. I had never had my hair dyed before so the experience was new to begin with -- not to mention I was on stage under the careful eye of the crowd and the clicking of their camera shutters. As my stylist narrated, his hands were hard at work until I couldn't see past the barrage of shimmering foil in my eyes and my nose was filled with the smell of ammonia.

My New Look

The time they had on stage allowed them to show the technique in setting the dye, but not the finished product. My tin foil Medusa impersonation act had to find its way through the circus of vendors and hair shows back to the secret prep room with hardly any visibility. Safe and sound back in the prep room, I was ushered to a sink and gently seated into the chair. As each foil was removed I was finally able to see the room. An array of models were scattered about the room in edgy haircuts embellished with gorgeous colors, not to mention the craziest outfits I had ever seen. It was a myriad of high heels, intricate lace, torn webbing, crazy colors and fabulously fake eyelashes. I had been chosen as a color model, my hair was colored on stage for all to see. But these girls had been chosen for the main fashion show -- and they were beautiful. From the ornately detailed and unique hair to the fabulous and fierce outfits, they seemed to have fallen from some high fashion planet in the sky.

My new hair was much more low-key than these girls, but I still loved the change anyway. The highlights were a subtle, but a refreshing change, to the same color I've had all my life. Not only was the work well-done, but the stylists were a lot of fun too. Everyone I worked with was sweet and kind, not to mention creative and passionate.

The Experience

Paul Mitchell made styling hair more than just a morning routine or vain luxury. Throughout my experience, I watched as through their hands it blossomed and grew into moving breathing works of art -- not only as they airily bobbed up and down catwalks, but even in the everyday moments that surrounded the big events. It was incredible to watch them as they worked, their genuine passion and creativity burned in their eyes and glowed in the gentle yet purposeful ways they moved their hands. It was an honor to be selected as one of the Paul Mitchell models -- not to mention a lot of fun -- and I left looking fabulous! Maybe next year I'll be in the main show. But who knows?