For nearly 30 years Janice Dickinson — the self-proclaimed Lord of the Rings of supermodels — has stared out at us from the covers of every fashion magazine.
She wrote about her life of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll behind the mega-watt smile in her best-selling book No Lifeguard on Duty.
Now, in Everything About Me Is Fake... and I'm Perfect, Dickinson writes about what she calls "the ultimate addiction" — perfect beauty — and her own with achieving it.
Read an excerpt from Everything About Me Is Fake … and I'm Perfect, below.
Chapter One: Going All the Way for Perfection
How far will your average supermodel go to look fabulous before, during, and after the hot-hot days of a modeling career? Well, let's take a quick trek down Memory Lane to Perfection Junction because highlights like this — well, they ain't pretty.
The Origins of Perfection
At age fourteen, naturally, I was no supermodel — not just yet. But I wanted to be one, so badly that I practically slept with Vogue under my pillow. I guess I was hoping some beauty tips would invade my brain while I slept. Instead, I ended up with my first pair of fake boobs.
When I say I stuffed myself every day, I don't mean gorging on burgers and fries. I filled my training bra to the brim (or as far as those baby cups could go) with tons of good old-fashioned affordable Kleenex.
Now, remember, I grew up in Florida. That means 100-degree temps and 200 percent humidity — so let's just say it wasn't exactly comfortable when all those tissues started getting moist and sticky. But I needed bigger boobs, and there was no way I was waiting around for Mother Nature's blessing — much less for Victoria to reveal her secrets to me. At fourteen I couldn't really afford implants, so I did the next best thing and started reaching out to bathroom products. I never thought of it in my virginal state, but my slogan should have been Please don't squeeze the Charmin. One night I took my toilet-paper-packing self to the high school basketball game. I remember feeling a little strange midway through the second half, a little ... lighter. Maybe skipping lunch is working! I thought.
Then, in a moment of horror, I looked down into the bleachers and saw a soggy, sweaty, melting ball of toilet paper on the floor below me. One of my counterfeit boobs had staged its own escape by leaping out of my bra and T-shirt. When I stood up to cheer the team on, I had one big t-t and one nonexistent one, and there wasn't much I could do about it. In a million years I couldn't have endured that long, humiliating walk down the bleachers to hit the bathroom and wad myself up again.
Ever the clever girl, I thought of the next best thing to rectify the situation. When no one was looking, I carefully slipped off a Ped sock and, while everyone else was cheering for the Nova Titans, granted myself a new second boob. I was like the Bionic Woman: We can rebuild her! A few minutes later my clammy hands were raised in fists to cheer — and my fake t-ts (both of them) were bouncing along for the ride.
That night, when my mother asked what I wanted for my next birthday, I surprised her. "Ten new pairs of Peds," I said. "But without the little pom-poms." No one had nipples that big.
Oh, the Horror