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
Okay, enough about my youth (for now, anyway). Let's pick things up in the backseat of a limo, circa 1980, after a Harper's Bazaar shoot for Gucci. I was making out with rocker Frank Zappa before we stepped out for dinner at the fabulous Russian Tea Room in New York City.
As the two of us strutted inside the place, all eyes were on my hot white jeans, which left little to the imagination. Somewhere between the antipasto and the second bottle of vino, I looked down and noticed something clammy between my legs — something that had nothing to do with Frank. Perfect, hot, model-babe Janice had all of a sudden turned into just-got-her-period-all-over-her-Calvins Janice.
What to do?
Before Frank got a load of the problem and decided I needed a transfusion (yep, it was that bad), my brain went into overdrive. Suddenly my hand was spilling half a bottle of wine into my nether regions.
"Oh my God, Frank, you had me so hot I wasn't paying attention," I purred as $200 worth of booze soaked into my crotch. I could always get hold of another bottle of wine -- but at least this way I knew I wouldn't end up as the bleeding girl on one of his anthology albums!
Out of Africa, Into a Mess
I went to Africa once on a shoot for Playboy, and my body was crying out for a hunky native. Since the only one in sight had what looked like a large bone through his nostrils, I opted to focus on myself and my other need: relief for my dehydrated body. Hearing my cries for some spa activity, my handlers suggested I go roll around in a mud bath. All I could think was, Why not? Sounded like a cheaper, more rustic version of the $300 mud wrap they offer at any Ritz Carlton.
Well, it was a tad more Farmer in the Dell than I expected. In fact, it was a giant mud pit. Sure, it was sort of interesting to feel that cold, smooth clay go into places previously reserved for men I invited into my bedroom. The downside was, I couldn't get the mud out of those private spots, no matter how high I reached or how hard I tried.
Eventually I found myself in photographer Peter Beard's tub, which was actually a rusty tin can in the middle of this hog ranch where we were shooting. On the plus side, though, Peter's servants did bring pots brimming with hot, steamy water to get the mud out of ... well, I'll leave that to your imagination. At least I could finally claim I was earthy.
Excerpted from Everything About Me Is Fake … And I'm Perfect. Copyright © by Janice Dickinson. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.