The Pretty vs. Smart Problem

A year later I was lying to strangers, saying that I was in the city as an au pair instead of a model. Being Cinderella at the ball, I discovered, has its disadvantages. Yes, everyone stared and wanted a picture of or with me. But no one wanted to actually talk to me. Attempts at discussing history, art or literature—subjects I had diligently studied—seemed to elicit the same reaction a toddler gets when he announces that he wants to be an astronaut or a fireman: a pat on the head and a smile. By merely mentioning that I was a model, I could practically watch my IQ plummet in someone's eyes.

In a desperate attempt to be taken seriously, I started dressing in all black (lots of turtlenecks), smoking Gitanes cigarettes and quoting obscure German philosophers. At the same time, I was getting noticed for appearing in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, and I gave my first interview. The journalist asked what I thought about modeling, and I said that it sucked. But, I admitted, it was the only way a teenager could earn as much as the President for simply showing up with clean hair. He was impressed by my frankness, and I made an interesting discovery: It's easy to appear smart when the expectations are nil.

That interview was not the only time I spoke my mind, and journalists often noted what one called my "irreverent" and "refreshingly candid" attitude toward modeling. Their assessments almost passed for being taken seriously. But I was greedy—I didn't want "almost." So I had a baby and quit modeling. No more pinup calendars or posters, I decided. Instead I acted, cowrote a children's book and designed an album cover.

The result? No one noticed. Suddenly, not only was I not taken seriously, I was not taken at all. I had succeeded in withdrawing my physique from the public only to find they weren't interested in any other part of me. My self-confidence reached an all-time low. Yet, ultimately, my desperation at being ignored prompted me to write. I went back to school and signed up for a course called "Beginning the Novel." My classmates either didn't recognize me (quite possible since I never wore makeup and didn't dress up) or made it clear that they didn't give a damn. It was a feeling of freedom I had so far experienced only by visiting online chat rooms. No one cared how I looked. What was important was what I said and wrote.

I made wonderful new friends, some whose only opinion of me was that I was that loudmouthed, skinny chick who needed help with written grammar but was really good at plot points. With encouragement from the workshop that we formed outside of class, I completed the story of Jirina, a young girl not unlike me and others I'd met during the days of selling my face and body. I spilled my innards and recorded my thoughts and gave her a life and a voice. The only reminders of my past were a few invitations to premieres, which I usually passed on in favor of staying home with my husband, two kids and a new episode of House. (Or Lost. Or 24. Clearly my nights were booked solid.)