New York City at this time of year is as gray as the pigeons in Central Park, as cold as the skating rink at Rockefeller Center and about as friendly as a cabbie stalled in rush-hour traffic. Angie Everhart steps out from her parkside apartment building and into this grim winter landscape. Angie is a model, a leggy supermodel, if you will, with very red hair.
Looking like some 1940s Hollywood starlet, Angie is wearing sunglasses and a black suede coat with a fluffy boa collar. At the end of a red leash trots her little white dog, Eddie, a Maltese. On her arm is a distinguished gentleman, her father, Bobby. Her mother, Ginnie, who is the original redhead, walks a few paces behind them, talking with a visitor. Angie's parents are in town for the weekend, and today they are going shopping with their daughter.
As the Everharts and Eddie stroll down Fifth Avenue, men suddenly lift the brims of their caps to get a better look; women eyeball the entire Angie package, from the high-heeled boots to the fiery hair. Children, the only ones brave enough to approach the Everharts, coo at the little white dog and pet him gently.
She doesn't have a catchy name like Vendela or a movie-star husband like Cindy Crawford or even an uncomely rock-star boyfriend like so many other models do. Still, these passersby all seem to be thinking the same thing: I know I should know who she is, but I can't think of the name. Sure, Ginnie could fill a whole newsstand with her collection of the magazine covers her daughter has appeared on, but a household name Angie Everhart is not. At least, not yet.
As she passes Bergdorf's, a man in a navy coat glances her way, passes by and then does a double take, or rather, a near-Exorcist-full-rotation-of-the-head triple take and...boom!...bumps into an unsuspecting pedestrian. Me, the one left in Angie's wake. "See what I mean?" Ginnie says to the visitor, 'it happens all the time. Never walk behind her. People will just crash into you."
But that was my assignment: to walk in Angie's wake for a few days; to get a behind-the-scenes look at the glamorous life of a top model, one who's pictured on page 113 of this very issue. At first Angie and 1 both felt uneasy with the assignment. Me, I would have been far more comfortable writing about the Super Bowl. As for Angie, journalists with cameras have always been good to her, but she doesn't quite know what to make of the ones with notebooks. There was that time when a writer from a fashion magazine asked Angie about her beauty secrets. "I don't really have any," she replied. In print her answer read something like this: "Angie likes to put sea kelp on certain parts of her upper torso to keep them firm, and she also rinses her hair with strawberry yogurt to keep it red."
To put Angie's mind at ease, we set a few ground rules. I promised not to ask any sea-kelp-and-strawberry-yogurt questions. She asked me not to write about her boyfriend. "I just don't want to jinx us," she said. I told her I knew nothing about the world I was about to enter. She agreed to answer even my dumbest questions. If we flew somewhere during the next few days, she demanded the window seat. I said fine. I did nothing but aisle. With those guidelines in place, and my ego checked at the airport gate, we were ready to begin.
You want glamour? We've got Glamour at 9 a.m., a photo shoot for the magazine's March cover at a studio in downtown Manhattan. By 9:50, with about a dozen fat red Velcro curlers in her hair, Little Orphan Angie is ready for makeup. "Did you ever have someone pluck your eyebrows'?" she asks me. Vincent, the makeup artist, eyes me, menacing tweezers in hand, which is my cue to leave the room. An hour later the taupes, peaches, rosewoods and pinks have all been applied to Angie's face, and the curlers are out.
"Is that your real color?" Mitch, the hairstylist, asks her. It is a question that will be repeated every day, countless times. Mitch needles Angie about her hair, stopping just short of demanding baby pictures for proof of its authenticity. If you really want to see this redhead's temper flare, call her hair color orange. Angie, a native of Akron and a Cleveland Brown fan most seasons ("The Browns suck," she says, "and Bernie! How could they have ever cut Bernie!"), is fully aware that orange looks good only on helmets in the Dawg Pound. "How would I describe my hair color?" she asks, repeating my question. "It's a shiny copper penny in the light with an old copper penny mixed in."