While on our first smoke break of what proved to be a very long first day of New York’s Fashion Week, the New York Observer found itself slouched down on one of the outdoor couches of Lincoln Center’s atrium. The tall gangly, man with bad skin and unruly hair next to us looked even more tired than we were. After striking up a conversation on the benefits of inhaling (it decreases stress; probably won’t kill you, and even if it does who cares?) we asked the gentleman, Edid, what he did for a living.
“I’m a fit model,” the young man said, fidgeting.
A fit model, Edid explained, was “a human coat-hanger” for designers to try out their clothes on.
“We thought those were just regular models,” we retorted.
“No…fit models aren’t…well, we’re not attractive like runway models.”
Edid’s life story was like some horrible alterna-Zoolander: he had a PhD in philosophy (“So I can always fall back on a $30k job if I have to,” he said, Eeyore-like), and had a fatalistic attitude towards the whole fashion industry, despite having fitted for John Vargas and a host of various other high-end designers.
The problem, Edid told us, was that he was too tall. “I’m 6’3, and the cut-off for male models used to be 6’2, so I could sort of fake it. Now it’s 6’1.”
“Wow, that sucks.” We didn’t really know what else to say.
“Yeah…I get to keep the clothes though. And I’m invited to the shows. So that’s cool.”
We later saw Edid in line, waiting to pick up his tickets while we were on our way out. We didn’t make eye contact, but wish him all the best. Fit models. Who knew?