Lyrad's Star Turn

A few weeks back, I was selected to be the "equipment spokesperson" for the training videos produced for the company. I, if I haven't previously said, sell beauty chairs and other various salon furnishings to Canadians...mostly. It's pretty glamourous, I know, but it gets even better when you get to talk about your exciting profession on camera. My selection was based on a stellar audition. Well, maybe it wasn't so stellar, but since I was the only person willing to do it, they got this.

I spent the next couple of weeks hearing from people how nervous they were that it wouldn't come off, that the information was right, that the sky was falling. Would I be good enough to do it? Could I be comfortable enough to be convincing? Could I read off a teleprompter? Whatever they could worry about, they did. I assured these doubters that I'd done things like this before (which is marginally true; I did have five lines and two rifle shots in a play in high school) and that everything would be fine. I don't know if I actually convinced anybody of my skills, but it didn't matter; they shut up, which was the important thing.

The one condition to my performance was that I get a haircut. I have been cutting my own hair for about fifteen years now, and had no intention of ever having my head molested by a stylist again, but they sent me anyway to the company stylists who made fun of my hedge-clipped coif. I took it in stride, told them they could do anything they want except for color, and they had a good time making me look like some kind of hip young club rat. They made me promise never to touch my own hair again and, after I finally did, they let me go on my way.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and we film. I was put through hair, makeup, and wardrobe, and was pampered like a queen. Everyone was very professional and we worked as fast as we could. I was on the clock and there were Canadians who needed advice on skin care products (and everyone who's seen my knows my porcelain skin), so they went as quickly as they could. I felt comfortable, I didn't fidget, and I got through my two good takes in about 30 minutes. It was great, until they realized they needed a script change. One word needed to be changed, so we had to start again. Now, because I had more or less memorized my lines, I couldn't seem to adapt and it took about fifteen tries to finally get two more good takes, clocking in at about 2:30. All tolled, I got what I thought I would get: a fun time and an extremely tedious time rolled into one. I will certainly be doing it again (and the final product was good enough for me to be asked back, which was nice), but I've learned my lesson. Do not learn the lines, because they'll assuredly change mid-filming.

A couple of thoughts on the whole experience:

--Male makeup works. I look at least ten years younger on camera than I do in real life. The question remains, however: do men look better when they are younger? In my case, even through the booze veins that have begun to riddle my face, the answer is no. I look a lot better now, but I guess youth sells so, whatever.

--Anybody who takes the production of industrial film seriously is crazy. I realize that this is these people's job, but c'mon. Most everybody who has worked for a large corporation has had a training film forced on them. Tell me how professional these productions look. How good is the acting? How high the production values? Quality is icing on the informational cake and is unneccessary to the final product, the information is paramount. Give me a break: we're talking about salon mats, not filming Giant!