Locked Away

I've been trapped in a studio found in the back of a warehouse 20 miles south of Boston for almost 2 weeks now. I've been burning myself and getting unsolicited lessons on how to be a stylist from The One-Upper. Yes, I'm assisting The One-Upper.

Thank God that my fellow assistant Callista is there to help take the edge off. Some golden nuggets of knowledge by TOU about working "your first styling job" (note: my first lead styling job was for Marie Claire Latin America when I was 21): you can't iron things flat (why make it hard on yourself?), don't put felt in shirts when you fold them because they are hard to work on set (untrue), put felt in shirts when doing a laydown (duh), don't stack shirts that aren't being shot that way (who cares!).

Needless to say, Callista and I have been bonding over such sound advice. Meanwhile, TOU is stressed beyond belief because she isn't as experienced as she thinks and the client learned this quick. There are no jobs in the metro Boston area that she could get as a lead that I would be envious of. I have zero desire to be a professional towel folder or catalog stylist.

As mean as we are, we sympathize for her. Although quick jabs are thrown here and there and more useless rules or ways to do things are told, we're getting soft on her. The poor thing is getting stuck with pain in the ass shots that are being ruled with the iron fist of an unorganized and picky art director. However, if I have to be shown how to iron a collar one more time, I might lose it.