"This is Vanessa, 28." That's how a call began last week, my brain signaled "telemarketing call!" and my finger was already hovering over the red button — the universal "please-spare-me-from-your-vacuum-cleaner" button. Who starts a conversation with their age? What could possibly come next?
But I stayed on the line. And as it turned out: Vanessa (name changed, of course) wanted to know the requirements for getting into Playboy. A legitimate question that I regularly answer. So I politely explained the basics, including that tattoos tend to be a hindrance.
"None at all?" she asked with audible concern.
"A few small ones are fine, but no large-scale ones," I replied.
There was a "Hmm" on the other end of the line which, in retrospect, was about as telling as the quiet crackling before an explosion. Then came her email with the application photos.
Have you ever tried to remain polite while your brain desperately searches for a diplomatic way to say "What the hell didn't you understand?" The images displayed an oversized portrait head on her thigh — not exactly what one would consider "a few small tattoos". Add to that extensive artwork on the other leg and both arms. Basically, there was more ink than bare skin visible.
I had to decline. Friendly, professional, explaining the editorial guidelines. This isn't my personal judgment; I simply have to follow the requirements. Which I had already explained over the phone.
A week later, an email arrived that was about as friendly as barbed wire in a swimsuit. She "knew perfectly well that there are plenty of tattooed models in the German Playboy too" and I should just be honest and admit that she "wasn't my type personally."Furthermore, she was testing me on my "professionalism."
Ah yes, the famous professionalism test. Apparently, I pass it by throwing my years of experience as a Playboy photographer overboard and instead trusting the forensic tattoo expertise of a stranger who believes that stating your age is a good conversation starter.
What I particularly appreciate about such situations: the opportunity for self-reflection. In the quiet moments after these interactions, I sometimes wonder if I've landed in a parallel universe where "no large tattoos" actually means "please tattoo a complete family portrait on your thigh".
The essence of this story is actually quite simple: Before getting permanently painted, perhaps one should pause briefly and consider whether the life-sized image of one's pet on the décolletage might possibly block certain career paths. Not every decision needs to be made for eternity, but ink on skin definitely falls into that category.
Did you check the date? Yes, today is April 1st. Sometimes my life feels like an April Fool's joke. Regardless of the date.