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The studio is filled with the scent of hairspray as I sit for my photoshoot. The bright lights overhead make me squint slightly, but my stylist waves a hand to guide me into position. It's been years since I've done one of these - so many magazine covers and advertisements have featured me that it seems like yesterday rather than nearly two decades ago. My fingers move instinctively to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric of my pantsuit as my photographer speaks with me about poses. The click of his camera has become a sound so familiar, I can almost hear it echoing through my dreams.
I remember when this was my life - or at least a part of it. My professional background has been one that's taken me to every corner of the world. Fashion shows in Paris and Milan, models strutting down catwalks in Tokyo and New York. The smell of makeup and perfume lingers long after the lights fade to black each evening. I was more than just a model; I was an icon - or at least that's what they called me back then.
As I strike pose after pose for my photographer, it's hard not to feel like I'm caught in a time warp. My body has changed over the years - some parts have softened with age while others remain firm and toned from countless hours spent honing my craft on sets and stages. The chair beneath me is sturdy enough to hold my weight as I cross one leg over the other, my hands resting delicately
