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The Runway Starts Here

The waiting room at Elite Models is a head trip. Ten sleek black leather and chrome chairs line one wall. Ten black-framed photographs of beautiful young women decorate the other. The first time I was there I analysed those photos like a mad scientist, trying to figure out exactly what made these particular female human beings the bomb. 100 per cent wrinkle free? Check. Swan necks? Check. Teeny waists? Check. Mini hips? Check. Skinny arms and legs? Check, you-better-believe-it check. Smiles to make orthodontists weep with pride? Oh yes. And not only were all the teeth bright white, nine out of the ten models were white. I was either on Planet Clone or inside a top modelling agency, soaking up all the nerve, attitude, and action I could: the shuffled photos, the wailing phones, the horrified whispers, the cries of "Oh my God, fabulous!" It was action I wanted to get a firm grip on.

A herd of gazelles interrupted my inspections. No, wait a minute. Those were real live models, rushing by on their stilt legs with their portfolios tucked under their twig arms. I was seeing the same cheekbones, the same blonde manes and the same limbs for yards as the photos up on the wall. Except the real live versions seemed somehow less alive. They were tired, faded, not what you'd call vibrant...makeup bag let-down, you might say.

Next a slim, elegant gentleman appeared on the scene. He was as willowy and bone structured as the ladies. He wore a pink and silver tie and a crisp, white, button-down shirt neatly tucked into sleek black pinstriped pants. Small silver curls were nestled tight to his head thanks to an obviously superior hair product. Everyone around here seemed to be worth a close look. The man stopped right in front of me.

"Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben, Mr. Ben. Welcome to Elite. Come to the boardroom immediately."

I jumped up and hurried. More framed pictures of more women so perfect it was hard to tell them apart: there was a glamazon factory somewhere (evidently Norway) and someone had placed a very big order. A long, oak table stretched the length of the boardroom.

"Take a chair, Ben."

The seat felt hot; I was having trouble keeping my cool. This was, after all, the big time. This was a room where deals were made with top magazine editors, advertising agents, photographers, and fashion designers. A single conversation in here could launch a top model-or crash a career. A top modelling agent has the power to control images that millions of people see on billboards, magazine covers, and televisions. Lately I had been dreaming of being a part of this world. And now, crazy miracle, I was.

I was sitting across a table from Elmer Olsen, vice-president of Elite Models, a.k.a. Industry Powerhouse. And I wasn't going to blush. No I wasn't. Yes I was.

"Well, Mr. Ben, how can I help you?" he asked.

It wasn't easy but I stared him down. "Sir, I want to steal your job."

Elmer smiled. Fourteen-year-olds aren't particularly diplomatic.

An Eighth Grade Fashion Insider

I got that first meeting with Elmer during spring break of my eighth grade. I'd started my modeling agency four months before, pretty well by accident. It began as a simple attempt to do a favour for a friend, then swiftly evolved into a mission. By the time I found myself in Elite's boardroom I had five models under contract and I was determined to do my best for them. My mom had been planning a big trip to Toronto for months with museums and art galleries in mind, but I'd done some serious itinerary revamping. Now all I wanted to do was visit modelling agencies, so I'd looked them up in the phone book and requested meetings. Mom agreed to tough it out on her own with the Rembrandts and Ming vases. My father passed away when I was five, so it's mostly been just her and me. We've gotten pretty good at letting each other do our own thing.

When I'd communicated that I was the owner of a modelling agency visiting from out of town, big-city agents were delighted to make time for me. I dressed for what I thought was the part-my Sunday-best blazer, my shiny new black pants, and a classic classy turtleneck that I figured had continental flare. It was just too bad portfolios didn't come in smaller sizes. People could see either my belt buckle or my face; I arrived everywhere in the middle of a wrestling match.

I thought I looked pretty good but the receptionists weren't having any of it. When I showed up for my appointments, they did a fast double take and bounced Junior ASAP. No one was nice. No one cared about my lovely models. The best I got was, "Come back when you've finished high school, and maybe we can give you an internship." That wasn't going to do it for Lisa, Jane, Keisha, Sally, and Sun-Yee, and it definitely wasn't good enough for me. My very last meeting was the one at Elite: the top agency in town with the largest roster of models internationally. It was do-or-die time. I was too young to die.

Elmer didn't seem fazed by age and attitude. He pored over the photos in my portfolio and asked questions about one model in particular, Sally. "How tall is she? How tall are her parents? How big are her feet?" I was stumped. I knew Sally's dress size and that was about it. Her feet? What was with the feet? Damn. I could only answer that she was thirteen and had tall parents. Elmer, however, had a genius grasp of genetics: "Thirteen, looks like a size 7 shoe, tall parents, so she'll grow. She should be okay."

He took me back to examine the pictures of the thin, white models in the thin, black frames, explaining how each met his criteria. He made comments like, "I scouted her in Turtle Lake. She's five foot ten and look at that teeny little body!" There was another model who made Elmer himself glow. "Isn't she gorgeous?" he asked. All I saw was a girl whom I might confuse with a couple of sticks and a smiley face. But Elmer saw the gold standard and if I was going to make it as an agent, I had to see the same: a thin, white, young, tall woman. "When you find a beautiful girl just like this, send her to me. I will treat her well. I'll treat you well, too," he promised.

I left on a high. Elmer Olson, the guiding force at Elite, had spent a whole hour with me and had taken my small agency seriously. I'd been taught some basic rules of the game and was on my way to becoming a big player. I'd been thinking that to make it as a model, charisma, personality, and basic hygiene would do. Now I knew the criteria for real success. Look out world: I had become a fashion insider.

The Cost of Beauty

That was March 15, 1996-the day I boarded a roller coaster that hasn't slowed down once since, despite some highly unexpected twists.

By day, I was a high school student on the cross-country track team and the debating team, deciding whether it ought to be resolved that cartoons are harmful to children or if city councils should be given more political power. I openly loved French and drama class, secretly loved algebra, and was extremely proud of my vintage Pumas.

By night, I was in my office running a modelling agency-interviewing hopefuls, fine tuning contracts, and nailing down bookings. At 6 a.m. I had to wake up and call Europe to manage my models there. During lunch and spares, I was on the phone drumming up local business. I used school holidays to fly to New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and Milan. My agency expanded from representing five models to representing two hundred. Our client list grew to include MTV, Dove, Max Factor, Nike, L'Or'eal, and Sears. Our models appear on the pages of Vogue, Elle, and Seventeen, and work catwalks all across Europe, Japan, and North America.

I started to get a lot of attention of my own. Teen People magazine recognized me as "one of twenty teens who will change the world." I was named "one of twenty-five leaders of tomorrow" by Maclean's magazine. I was interviewed on Oprah, FOX, CNN, Fashion Television, and in print for Fashion, People, and Profit, among others. Professionally, I appreciated the increased credibility and momentum. On a personal level, I loved the chance to travel the globe and to meet so many masters of their crafts. Trust me, if you approach it at the right time, in the right frame of mind, with the right aptitude, business is a thrill ride.

In the midst of all these glorious achievements, however, a crisis of conscience started boiling within me and threatened to overflow. The usual, typical, accepted standards for models started to seem outdated and harmful and grossly oppressive. Intuitively, I had once understood that beauty does not-and must not-depend on any one standard. I wanted my ideals back. I needed to challenge my mentor, Elmer.

The paradox would be ridiculous if it wasn't so tragic. The fashion industry takes pride in its creativity and innovation-season after season, year after year, designers find new ways of expressing their artistry-yet the kind of face and body that gives life to this art form remains the same. Modelling should be a positive reflection of our lives and our world. But it's not, not yet. It remains negative. It tells us, no, you don't fit the mould, you're not up to par, you're not thin enough or white enough or young enough. The average female model is five foot eleven and 117 pounds and white. The average woman is five foot four and 140 pounds and comes in assorted colours. Seems like a bit of a discrepancy, don't you think?

Well, fashion does that on purpose. Marketers purposefully create and maintain a gap between models and consumers. They believe that the disconnect helps to sell products. They destroy our self-image then persuade us to build it back up again by buying their cologne, shampoo, and jeans. As Dr. Phil McGraw points out, "It's always been that way, but it's getting more intense lately. Defining yourself through these images is the problem. Judging people on how closely they compare to the idealized model is the problem. It's the marketing machine-'if you have this, you will be glamorous too.'"

Business may be booming, but at what cost? The fact is, consumers will never look like models. (Most of the time, even the models don't look like models-they have zits, freckles, bellies and, trust me I've seen it up close, cellulite.) Yet customers continue to buy advertised products as if they'll somehow turn into Kate Moss.

This is a lot bigger than that all-too-common and corrosive little question: "Do these pants make my butt look too big?" Currently, 80 per cent of women and 45 per cent of men in the United States dislike the size and shape of their bodies. Among them, nearly ten million women and one million men have medically diagnosed eating disorders. According to the National Eating Disorders Association, eating disorders affect people of every race, gender, and age. In a congressional briefing sponsored by the American Psychological Association, Dr. Lisa Berzins stated that, "The fear of being fat is so overwhelming that teenage girls have indicated in surveys that they are more afraid of becoming fat than they are of cancer, nuclear war, or losing their parents."

Celebrities are a long way from immune. Mary-Kate Olsen, Lindsay Lohan, and Victoria Beckham are just a few of the starlets who've discussed their struggles with body image. Being thin has become a top prerequisite for commercial success. Losing a few pounds to gain a lot of credibility seems like a leap in the right direction for some celebrities-and for those trying to emulate them.

The sad facts truly hit home for me when it came to my gorgeous, healthy young friends. One day, I would be sitting beside a runway in Paris, watching size 0 models strut their stuff in haut couture. The next, I would be hanging out in the school cafeteria listening to my pals complain about calculus and being tubby. Then Mia, my best friend-the one I spent every possible lunch, spare, and Starbucks run with-beautiful, healthy, strong Mia developed anorexia. The disconnect between my two worlds was heartbreaking.

Altering the Fashion Industry (and the World)

I'm not the first to notice the problem, of course. Hundreds of books criticize the fashion industry's obsession with skinny, young, white models. But those books stop one step short. They don't offer concrete, workable solutions. Fashion is and always will be a business.

I owed it to myself, and my world, to figure out a way to make fashion real while still establishing a business that thrived. I had to contemplate the industry with every ounce of insight I had going for me and work at affecting change from within. I had to wonder if fashion's leaders were simply out of touch-isolated in their fancy Parisian studios and Manhattan lofts-or if there was something more sinister at work. How had this faulty paradigm been created? Why was it so resistant to change and how could I change it nonetheless?

Call me crazy but I was determined to run a modelling agency based on the principle that we are all beautiful in our own ways. I wanted more people to identify with models instead of getting forced into a narrow, uninspired, stereotyped understanding of beauty that's false the moment you think twice about it.

The business strategy I developed is surprisingly simple: people are excited when they see magazines and billboards with models they can relate to. Diverse models represent the people who will be buying and wearing the clothes. Advertising that reflects the consumer properly allows the buyer to identify with the brand. It builds loyalty and market share. It makes money.

In the beginning, I didn't know anyone would listen to someone new to the business, let alone a teenager. But I owed it to Mia and myself to try.

It Was a Big Risk. But It Paid Off.

Doing Well by Doing Good

I wrote this book because I wanted consumers to get an insider's look at the changes I was able to make to the fashion industry. Also, I want to give other people working in fashion and beauty ammunition to blast through changes in their own firms. And I want to inspire potential entrepreneurs to enter fashion on brave new terms. Fashion is changing, but all industries need new energy and ideas to push them along.

But the story I have to tell is bigger than one young person and one industry. As the head of a company that makes a profit while also working for social change, I'm part of a growing movement. Many other entrepreneurs-especially young ones-have developed business approaches along similar lines and come up with innovative solutions to other social problems. So my second reason for writing this book was to prove that business is a vehicle for social change and, furthermore, that business is sometimes even more effective than traditional activism.

Entrepreneurship is more accessible than you might think. If you're interested enough, it doesn't matter if you're young, or have the fancy degree from the snobby school. Anyone can make a serious contribution to the business world and thereby society. In fact, young people are natural entrepreneurs. We see the need for change around us and have the energy and imagination to take action.

With all that we know, at this very moment, we can transform our world. The stories I share in this book are going to prove that. When you're done, ask yourself what you're waiting for.

Fashion your reality.

Illustration Credit: The New Yorker (March 20, 2006)