Not because of the silly things you always heard those bridge-club biddies bemoaning in the airport - it wasn't lost luggage or the lack of a proper bagel that had me down. But lately I found myself becoming more jaded by my globe-trotting.
I loved traveling for work, eagerly snapping up what the industry called "go-away jobs." Nomadic by nature, I took the adage "home is where the heart is" literally - a hotel room morphed into home as long as I was in it (with the added bonuses of crisp sheets, fresh towels, and chocolates on my pillow). Was this really how I wanted to spend the rest of my life? Maybe not, but for now I knew one thing: I was going to Spain. Ten years of crafting updos and vanquishing shiny noses had driven me to uncharacteristic self-analysis. I had learned that celebrities were just people with name recognition, and photo shoots were as tedious as board meetings, once you had been to hundreds of them. But good as it had been to me, my initial euphoria at being part of the fashion industry I had always worshipped as spectator was starting to wane. Makeup artists, hairstylists, wardrobe stylists, location scouts, production managers, food stylists - we had it all under one roof. What my company did was turn those six calls into one. Normally, an advertising exec needed to make about half a dozen phone calls to pull together a photo shoot. The concept was both convenience and strength in numbers. Named Team, it was an agency that represented artists who worked, in one capacity or another, in the photography and advertising industries. And somehow, along my merry way, I had also cofounded a company. As a beautician who specialized in commercial photography, I had spent most of the last decade trigger-happy with a can of hairspray and a powder puff.
I had a career that people who didn't know better might consider glamorous. Īt least workwise, things weren't so shabby. The call certainly felt routine at the time, but we don't always know our Rubicon when it rings. A weeklong hair and makeup job for IBM in Barcelona, it had the allure of an escape from the drab and drear of mid-March Provincetown.
Neither the caller nor the subject matter was by any means unusual - it was the Boston - based agency that represented me, giving me my newest assignment. In my particular case, that life-changing phone call came early one wintry Cape Cod day - early enough that my roommate, Kate, and I were still cheerfully ensconced in our morning routine of Peet's coffee, PJs, and Rosie O'Donnell. However, now I know better: sometimes you really can trace it all back to a phone call. I've always thought the use of a ringing phone to symbolize the onset of great personal change was a cheap plot device, and a gross oversimplification of the various factors that inspire human metamorphosis.
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