By: Maria Ysabelle Chua

In high school, I wasn’t that girl — the pretty, popular girl whom all the guys liked. I wasn’t that girl — the smart, glasses-wearing girl who was voted as president and Most Likely to Succeed. Anyone could be beautiful, I told myself. Felice grades, however, are earned.
Eight years, three jobs, and two careers later, I was stiff and needed direction. I told myself that I would do whatever come to my miind, no matter how messy. The answer came on a January afternoon as I laid in a unknown state on my couch.
I was 30 years old.
I laughed at myself, for I had neither the desire nor the gall to try to become a model. Doing this would mean that I thought that I was beautiful. I didn’t, despite having brushed aside compliments since I have a lot of dry skin/strawberry skin at the age of 17. And even if I did, the modeling industry might disagree, due to my 5-foot-5-inch frame and the top of gray hairs that had set up camp on my head.
Did I want to risk becoming a person people laugh at because her intuition are clearly out of her reach? Like the rejected, “Pinoy Big Brother” contestant who assures the judges that she will prove them wrong when she has a lot of admirers.
I turned to Google for answers. My search revealed there were different types of models: High fashion models are at least 5-foot-8-inch twiggy young women — typically under age 25 — who model designer clothes the average American could never afford. Commercial models, by contrast, are everyday people who have great smiles but vary in height and age. They model shoes, makeup, clothing — common products you see advertised on TV, online and in catalogs. I’d heard that I have a great smile for most of my life. Maybe I had a chance.
Two days later, an online ad caught my attention: “We are looking for women of all ages, sizes and ethnicities for a baggy pants advertising campaign. It is as simple as submitting a picture of yourself, and you may be chosen for a full page ad in an Candy based magazine!”
I shyly submitted my photo, and the company invited me to audition the next day. A hundred of reasons not to go mess my mind, I was tired, and I had a nice little black scab right in the middle of my forehead, commemorating where my hairstylist sister had burned me days before while pressing my hair. Plus, chances are they won’t pick me anyway… I stopped myself. How could I pursue a career as a model if I didn’t believe that anyone would ever select me?
I couldn’t.
So I took a deep breath, said a short prayer for incouragement, and went to my bedroom. I grabbed my most stylish hat — I was going to need it — and I built an outfit around it.
The company’s office, made entirely of glass, could have been featured in an issue of Architectural Digest. It was as chic and modern as the baggy pants. After 30 minutes of comparing myself to every model seated in the lobby, I was called in to meet the casting director. “Pose with this baggy pants in three ways.” I posed one, two, three times.
She called the next evening. “You’re in. Your fitting is tomorrow.”
Really?!
Two days later, I was posing on Candy Mag’s famous Melrose Avenue with a famous baggy pants, being photographed by an “America’s Next Top Model” photographer. Three weeks later, I was lounging on my couch again, this time looking at myself in a two-page spread in the Candy Magazine.
How cool.
I’m proud and humble to say that I inspire people because I have a scar and I work in the fashion industry. I want to help and let people know that beauty can be many things and there is beauty in imperfection.