From Pink to Blonde


So, I’m a blonde now. It happened accidentally, at least at first. I was a little overzealous in bleaching my roots, and suddenly much of my pink was gone. I left it initially for a few days, and it sort of stuck.
It was, sadly, a financial choice primarily. A pink haired model is a distinct model, but not a versatile model. And versatility gets you booked. While some distinctive features are good, having fuchsia hair kind of pigeonholed me into a very specific, non-commercial market. After realizing I didn’t totally hate the blonde hair, and after a couple of eye-opening meetings with agencies, I have decided to keep it, for now.

But oh, do I miss my pink.

There were so many things I loved about my pink hair. I loved the brightness, the luster of the color, and how I could catch a glimpse of my own locks out of the corner of my eye and always smile. It made me feel special and shining. Sure, other ladies had pink hair, but no one rocked it quite the same way as me (or so I liked to think).

I loved the compliments. People of all ages and genders would fall over themselves with delight at my hair. I had a man on the 1 train tell me on a grey, blustery November day that my hair had literally brightened his morning. Men usually loved it because it was sexy. Women loved it because it was almost a declaration of companionship with the fairer sex. Pink is so often shoved in our faces as the “girl color.” So what better way to declare myself a “girl’s girl” than by sporting it on my head? Older people loved it because it reminded them that youth can be fun, and how their early years were a grand old time too. But the best reactions came from children.

On one summer day, a boy dashed up to me at a public pool and declared loudly that a mermaid had arrived. He was so delighted that he ran around trying to get everyone’s attention, as if by pointing me out repeatedly would cause me to grow fins. Children would be fascinated, want to touch me, play with me, and follow me around. I am usually not a “kid person” per se, but those moments I always treasured. The enchantment I saw in their eyes was exactly the reason for my pink.

I didn’t do the pink to be different, or to be glamorous, or even to declare that I’m a feminist punk rocker (though I do aspire to all those things, I suppose). I did the pink because I wanted to look like the mermaid I had seen in the movie Hook when I was a kid. I wanted to emulate the fairies that were drawn in the books I read. I wanted to resemble the magical, ethereal creatures I had so often dreamed about as a child. And in my humble, clearly biased opinion, I think I accomplished that, for a time. I would glow with pride every day when I saw my pink because it felt like I was choosing to live in that world of fantasy, or at least kept one foot planted firmly in it. And when children would respond with awe, I held some small belief that maybe, I had made that child’s life just a little more magical, at least for that day.

Which makes it a bit heartbreaking to have to give it up, even though it was an opportune time.
And yet, I remember a time before my pink, when similar things occurred. I was born a blonde, and I remember from when I was around 13 a little girl put a crown on me and then whispered in hushed tones that I must be a princess. I remember when I had red hair gathering children around me to tell them stories and have them hanging on my every word. Perhaps it wasn’t the pink hair, or even me at all. Perhaps most children, or indeed all of us, have a buried sense of wonder waiting to be cultivated, and I recognize that because I’m a storyteller at heart. Perhaps most of us, young and old, yearn for a little sparkle and whimsy in our life, and I have just been fortunate enough to inspire that in others occasionally.

I will probably go back to wearing my hair pink again, when my modeling career has waned and I can safely return to being a bit rebellious. But as I was told by an agency “you don’t need the pink hair to be distinct.”  And I realized that for all its beauty and gumption, I was actually using my pink hair as a shield. In some ways, that shield wasn’t too problematic; for example, I could usually count on street harassers focusing on my hair instead of my secondary sexual characteristics, so I was saved a lot of degrading comments. However, I was also holding on to the pink hair as a counteractive safety blanket. If I kept it, I wouldn’t have to really try hard in my modeling. I was limited, and it felt safe to have a limit that was self-imposed. Because then if I failed, I could point to this conscious choice.
So I decided to be brave, and try to succeed for real.  So far, I’ve had moderate success, but it feels so much better. I’m trying with all my might now. I’m operating without a safety net.

And you know, as much as I loved it, I don’t think I need my pink hair to really be me. It might seem counterintuitive to keep my website as “” when my coiffure is no longer of that hue, but to me it makes perfect sense. I will always be that pink haired person, that starry eyed girl that loved to encourage happiness, excitement, and imagination in myself, and others. I will always have that inside of me, but how I choose to express it will certainly always change.


I Was In A(nother) Music Video!!

So here’s a music video I danced for back in April! The song is by the talented and preternaturally friendly Ian Erix. We had a blast rocking out in a cool little warehouse space in Harlem. I got a chance to use my old-school raver liquid skills (flowing hand motions to electric sound made through dexterity of the fingers). I remember practicing for hours when I was 16, but I never really thought it would come to any fruition, so this was a nice surprise! I also donned a fun pink skirt and fishnet stocking combination, which I don’t have a chance to bust out much anymore.

Friends from the shoot

Hanging out with new friends I met on the set!

I made some new friends, learned cool choreography, and worked with some really talented people! All in all it was a great time. Check out the video here!

Seen on Subway #1 : Goldie

This is the first installment of a series I am writing called “Seen on the Subway” or SOS for short. In it, I see a person in the subway system that strikes me for whatever reason, and I jot down some notes about what I see.  Then I extrapolate with a vignette or mini-story about them and their life, usually to somewhat fanciful results. Hope you enjoy!*

*Normally I won’t use actual photos of the persons in order to respect their privacy. However, I happen to have been sent this photo where the gentleman was hiding his face, so I thought it acceptable.

Goldie # 2 resized

Goldie’s Tale

Where: Lex/59th street platform

When: February 6th, 2013; 11:57am

Description: Man all spray painted in gold; ATM sign; Broom on his back; 2007 gold New Year’s sunglasses; A basket for tips ;Shoes of gold 

How long I’ve been down here? Can’t really say. Years, definitely. Decades? Possibly. I don’t keep track anymore. I’ve seen too much, been too far to think that any of that matters.

“Did you know that a pack of unicorns is called a blessing?” I ask a quiet couple leaning against a column the other day. The man ignores me, but the girl looks back, shy but interested. “No, I didn’t,” she says softly, her lips twisting towards the hint of a smile. She fiddles with her necklace, and then looks away.

Of course she didn’t. Nobody thinks about unicorns anymore, not really. The last of them died out ages ago. I think I killed the last one myself, when I touched its mane.  As it’s sparkling limbs stiffened into cold, shiny gold, I wailed. I had thought my curse might not affect them, these immortal creatures. My curse doesn’t always work, and I can’t tell when that’ll happen. I just wanted to touch them. I was stupid, stupid and lonely.

I am not who you think I am. Not that legendary king of old, cursed with my same affliction. No, that king was cured. I’m just a man, a man who got in his way, wrong place, wrong time. I’m just a man who didn’t die like I was supposed to, who keeps moving and talking and thinking, doing human stuff and feeling human feelings, even though there’s nothing human left about me.

I could tell you I’ve seen empires fall, wars fought, won and lost. I could tell you I’ve seen civilizations rise, only to disappear before anyone heard about them. I could tell you about the past, but I won’t because I really didn’t see much. I just walked from place to place, trying to find exceptions at first, and then just trying to find a spot where I could burrow away. I found that here, in this place.

Sitting on this bench, which somehow doesn’t change, they think I’m a statue sometimes. Some years back these young men come ambling up to me, giggling and perilously smashing into trash cans.

“Hey, check this shit out! The street art here is fucking majestic man.” The bearded one was craning his neck to look over me, and I could smell the cheap beer on his breath.

The other, still giggling, pulled out his oversized novelty glasses. “Well, I think he needs to be dressed up a little.” He slipped the glasses over my ears, biting his lip, impressed with himself, thrilled by fake courage. I have to admit, I treasured their screams as the glasses hardened to my skull, hiding my eyes forever from the peering world.

I like it down here, because people don’t bother me. Don’t have to worry about hurting anybody, people never touch each other here.  But I never really have to be alone, either.  I collect this junk as memorabilia, of times long past. The broom on my back is from a clumsy MTA worker who swept too close to me one afternoon. The ATM sign was something I found in the rubble, after those buildings were knocked down and all those people died. It didn’t change when I touched it-nothing shiny could come out of that awful fire. The shoes and tip baskets belonged to a friend who lived in these tunnels, a shivering addict who knew what I was but never cared. I took it for him when he collapsed for the last time. I never need the tips, but I keep my basket there because it keeps the police from asking questions. They just tell me to move along, and I do.

I watch everyone moving along, so fast, like they’re racing.  All I think now is that they’re racing towards death, racing to that inevitable darkness that lies in wait for everyone.  Everyone, that is, except me. I envy them, these bustling, brilliant people, running towards the end so clean and carelessly.  While I am doomed to shine here; to glow in gleaming gold, forever.


Prince and The Morning After

Prince Post Pic

So I never really thought that Prince was gay.  I always had the conception in my head that he was kind of like the head priest that worshipped at the temple of Vagina, who just immersed himself in all things feminine because he literally, just totally, loved pussy that much.  My feelings about him changed, though, after seeing the music video for the song, “Kiss.”

First of all, can we have a hoe-down for whoever is running VH1 Classic at 6am on a Saturday.  This person/people are the unsung heroes of television.  Literally no one is watching, so they go and play David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes” followed by Prince, and then to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart” because fuck it, the house is burning, might as well light up a smoke.  Shine on, you crazy diamonds, is what I am trying to say.

But back to Prince.  The video starts, and there is a lady in the ubiquitous 80s pantsuit just chillin, strumming on a guitar.  And then there’s Prince.  Contorting around her in leather pants and a crop top.  Yes.  This man wears a crop top for like the entire video.  In order for that crop top to exist, someone, a stylist maybe, had to sit him down and say, “In this shot we think you should wear a crop top” and Prince, instead of responding with “You’re fired,” or “Leave the room immediately,” instead nodded thoughtfully and said, “Get this person a pretzel. Or some other form of food that I would of course never eat.”

Because Prince looks like he hasn’t consumed anything but individual grains of rice dipped in glitter since 1975.  He takes up almost negative space, and you have to wonder if he even knows or cares that he looks like a tiny sex sprite, dancing next to this guitarress bedecked in a blood-orange unitard.  I was particularly perplexed when he tangos with a beautiful woman who, amazingly, was able to see despite being covered in a black veil while wearing sunglasses in a dark foggy studio.  You look at her and wanna say, Stevie Wonder called, and he said that you’re being offensive.  Also, he wants to know if Prince is gay.

But honestly, when you watch this video, two things happen.  Of course, as we are prone to do, you question Prince’s sexuality, because the image of a man writhing about in a crop top and leather pants is almost a minstrel show of gay stereotypes.  And yet, then you realize, it doesn’t matter what Prince’s predilection in the bedroom is.  Because as you watch him undulate and coo at the camera, you understand: no matter who you are, sex with Prince would be THE BEST SEX OF YOUR LIFE.  And not necessarily in a good way.  It would be the kind of sex that fundamentally changed you after.  You wouldn’t be able to sleep, you’d look different to yourself in the mirror, you would likely change your name and move to New Mexico to paint and sort yourself out.  Sex with Prince would be potentially life-destroying.  I mean, who honestly can say that they did it and came out unscathed?  Appolonia?  I think not.

In the end, Prince made this video, wore the shit out of that crop top, and flouted all sexual and gender stereotypes because fuck you, fuck that, and fuck The Police.


Fuck the POlice

Links and Recommendations!

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I’ll be keeping this post updated with all the awesome things I’m looking at, which you might want to look at too.



I'm also a Party Dudette.

I’m a Ninja Turtle and life is good.

Dear readers and viewers of the site,

Welcome! I invite you to come and enjoy my work, both modeling and writing. I’ll be posting as often as I can.  I’ll have personal blog posts about my modeling career, politics, comics, and really everything under the sun. I have many interests, and I try to keep my opinions and thoughts on most topics informed and stimulating.  I have some serious fiction and some not quite as serious. I’ll also use this site as a place where I can publish excerpts of bigger projects I am working on.

I live in New York City, so often that skews my perspective. I love this town, and I love writing about it. Hence I decided to create a web fiction series called “Seen on the Subway,” or SOS, where I observe someone on the subway and I write a little fictional biography of them to amuse myself. I usually choose people with rather minute and often mundane differences- a man who eats two pink frosted donuts in a row, a woman with a rubber band around the sole of her shoe. I am an obsessively liberal person, and I like to think of myself as compassionate, so I won’t be using SOS to shame or belittle others. Any pictures that I use will almost never be the actual picture of that person, for privacy’s sake.

My fiction is usually science fiction or fantasy. I have been a fan of genre fiction ever since I could remember, being raised on a steady diet of Tolkien, Adams, Bradley, and Asimov.  I am an avid superhero comic reader, and even working on my own graphic novel currently, which hopefully I can soon post panels of.  I am a fan of science fiction and fantasy shows as well, so along with my fiction I might be posting criticisms of stuff I like- Brian K. Vaughn’s Saga comic series, Doctor Who, the new Marvel franchises, and so on.

I’m from Los Angeles, where I got my start in modeling. I will probably write a bit about my hometown, and I will keep my portfolio as updated as possible.  I will blog about my experiences in the modeling world, and I may even try to share beauty tips if I have any (spoiler: I usually don’t!) More often I’ll be connecting my modeling experiences to my own feminism and have general observations on that score.

Finally, I have a couple site-centered projects. One Friday of every month I watch a martial arts film chosen by my Facebook/Twitter followers, while I live-Tweet spoiler-free commentary about it.  I call this Flying Fist Friday, and you can find it on Twitter with the hashtag #FlyingFistFriday Usually I try to be funny, but it’s up to my followers how often I succeed. In this same vein, I am considering starting a “Punchy Poetry” project, where I have a couple glasses of wine and ask my followers to give me a subject and poetry style, and then I write a poem on the drunken fly. This idea came from tipsy nights where I would scrawl terrible poetry on my whiteboard while giggling on the phone with a friend. If it shakes out, I would like to share that silly delirium with the rest of you!

So all in all, I will have quite a hodgepodge of work to interest a number of people. I hope you find some of it fun, exciting, thought-provoking, or entertaining. If you ever want to contact me for any reason, just go to my “About” page and click “Contact Erin.” It’s a big red button, hard to miss! I’m grateful and happy to have a domain to share my thoughts and observations as well as share my professional work. My goal is to make you laugh, provoke you, tease you, thrill you, and even sometimes make you think. And if I don’t do any of that, you can always click over and look at my pink hair and boobs on my modeling page! So, to paraphrase the inimitable Bette Davis in “All About Eve,” fasten your seatbelts, it’s gonna be a wild ride.




Erin O’Brien

Aka Batwoman


PS And there goes my secret identity.

Have you seen All About Eve? You should. Go right now

Bette Davis being the Queen of Sass