That one time I was a store mannequin

When I was in university, I got an early morning call to my dorm room from Margery McHattie, a lady who lived in the community I grew up in and worked in the box office for the Bauer Theatre, the theatre on campus.

It was university, and morning, so I had a lovely drunken chat and then went back to sleep for a couple hours. I woke up thinking about a whacked out dream I had. Marge McHattie from Copper Lake called me and asked me if I wanted to be a store mannequin in the mall. It was weird enough to be attributed to the beer/Wheel pizza combo I had before passing out, I mean I lived in Antigonish. Getting a MacDonald's was epic. Live mannequins? Total insanity.

But I couldn't dismiss it out of hand, because there might be money involved. I always needed money. I figured Marge could only have gotten my number from my mother, so I called mom and asked as casually as I could, not wanting to rat myself out for being drunk enough to not tell the difference between talking and dreaming, if anyone had happen to call requesting my acting services (I was doing volunteer theatre at the time).

Goldmine! It was real. Bless Marge, she picked the neighbour girl for work. I called Marge, got the number for my future employer and called for details.

As a reader note, everything that is cool about this story is already over.

When I called, I spoke to an extremely enthusiastic entrepreneur who was going to bring big-city trends to small-town Antigonish through innovative advertising and high-end fashion. That's right. Antigonish was getting its very own Cotton Ginny. 

The owner didn't have any money to pay me, what with starting up the business and all, but she did offer me any outfit I wanted in the store at cost. Well, she didn't have to ask me twice. What a deal!

Now you may be starting to consider the possibility that I hadn't really thought this through. A live mannequin. In the mall. In Antigonish. For 50 per cent off clothing. From Cotton Ginny. Fear not. I figured I could eliminate all awkwardness by ensuring my friends had no idea I was doing it. Problem solved.

Ha ha ha.

The day came. The store owner introduced me to another girl, her store clerk, whom I was to give a crash course in being a mannequin, (because the four plays I'd been in made me a qualified mannequin coach), then we were to don full clown makeup and rainbow clown wigs to complement our feminine and floral Cotton Ginny dresses. The clown part had not been raised previously. I still don't get it. However, I was beginning to realize this may be embarrassing, so a white grease mask and a rainbow Afro was sounding better with every minute.

After five minutes worth of drama training, the store clerk and I did our best to become Cotton Ginny mannequin clowns in the public washroom. She was a little more girly than I, what with her wearing shoes and me wearing the army boots I showed up in. By girly, I mean slightly less of a freak.

Because it sure was a freak show. For two hours the two of us got our vogue on, attempting to shift between poses like robots. During that time, we were repeatedly poked, prodded, pointed at, laughed at, and children of all ages flipped us the bird. It's the one time in my life I've been able to say "thank god I'm in full clown makeup" and really mean it. It's also the only time I've said that.

After what seemed like a bit past forever, the owner told us our time was up. I asked if I could keep the dress because I got clown makeup on the neckline. She said no.

It was at this point the clerk and I realized there wasn't any makeup remover in the bag the owner gave us. We asked her for some. She told us to go over to the drugstore and get a handful of lotion from the tester bottles.

If you ever find yourself wishing to be rid of full clown makeup in a small town mall, feel confident that with heavy scrubbing with paper towels, hand lotion, and liquid soap, you can get a heavy layer of greasepaint off your face in the public washroom. You won't need to exfoliate for months afterwards.  You just need to ignore the other bathroom patrons, because explaining the situation does nothing to make you look less crazy. Oh, you were a mannequin. In the mall. In Antigonish.

I did get my outfit of choice: low-rise jeans, a cable-knit sweater, a matching long-sleeved shirt, and a leather belt stamped with little flowers. Remarkable details to remember from 20 years ago, hey?

Well that's the thing with public humiliation a character-building exercise. It's the knowledge you keep with you for life that helps you make good decisions in the future. Never once since that time have I ever considered agreeing to be a mannequin in a mall in Antigonish for discounted clothing from a mom-wear store. Not even for a second.