Image: Cameron Randall/@rameroncandell. By Jessica Ruscoe.
When I was 19, I was asked if I would consider bleaching the moles off my face.
Sitting in the promising space of a modelling agency, I hid my shock as the agent dangled the fantasy of what could be if I followed their strict projection into the fashion world.
It wasn’t something I’d ever considered. Aside for a brief period in primary school where my ‘beauty marks’ were the topic of childish torment, there was never a time where I distinctly disliked them.
“If we were an agency in New York, that would be the first thing we would do.”
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As I sat there contemplating surgery, I recalled an impromptu shoot I did with a friend where he photoshopped the moles off my face. It didn’t look like me.
“I’ve never thought of doing that,” I admitted.
“Well it’s just something to think about.”
It’s a strange thing to reflect on, the way I have always felt about myself, the way I’ve never liked been disliked, and yet when it came to the modelling industry I found myself more thick-skinned than ever.
Jessica. Image: Cameron Randall/@rameroncandell.
I was always aware it was I who needed to fit the mould, to transform into the gem they saw hidden in me. Two inches below my current hip width, several ribs more prominent supposedly laid a beauty I’d always dreamed of becoming. In my darkest hour still, I wish to become her.
It was with intense sincerity I discussed the faults found within my figure. As if we were discussing the inadequacies of a three star motel.