Notebook 061

It isn't exactly thought of as so, but the mannequin business isn't too bad off. A good model will last a couple of seasons or even years in the more commercial and watered down fashion outlets. Not all stores can afford to replace the three-hundred quid, twenty-five pound heavy, fibreglass models and even less give a shit-about what they do.
Let's take your bog standard middle aged women's fashion store. They will have already of spent a fair amount of wedge on refurbishing the building; stainless steel, white walls with vinyl graphics, down lighting, you know the sort of place. If they're trying to appeal to mums with fresh kids rather than stuffy middle-aged chick-less nest type mothers, there will probably be a recess filled with sweets at the till and a music booth with three annoyingly catchy pop shite wonders ready to burn into children's memory slots and latterly: their vocal chords.
Amongst all the hanging fashion shoot posters of diluted catwalk nobodies and catalogue models whored from glossy newsprint stock to optimistic Nora (most likely on the 'red week diet' at her economy value weight watchers called slim world or something equally as petting), stands silently and solemnly a bleach white family. Their perfect skin tone evenly glossed with a silk finish both absorbs and emits the windows spotlights. They stand with eyes wide open yet aren't looking anywhere near where we can see or even comprehend. Slopped onto these will be whatever child labour garments the offer-of-the-week-that's-not-too-cheap-else-you'll-think-we're-tacky execs allow the fashion college dropout leeches to regurgitate. A charming hearing-aid beige high waist trouser set with ornate floral pocket motifs maybe? A reminiscent college zero-fifty-six green and blue screen printed worn look hoody with trendy cordless hood toggles perhaps? Or possibly, somewhere, a brave young soul tries to tie a diving v-neck sequin marine green summer top with black pedal pushers and rugged jelly clog imitation slip-ons?
All of which are as comparable to dehumidifying the sweat stained air, taking and leaving the working class pit precipitation in a sty of incestuous rabid street dogs, then scraping up the lovely congealed mess, eating it, and subsequently vomiting or shit-spraying it all over the metre wide frosted glass space at the front of the store, which funnily enough hold clothes that are the optimal fashion statement in store and therefore never ever in stock should you wish to inflict such purchasing pain.
In short, mannequins rarely get used how they're intended but regularly and unnoticeably get used. It's because of THIS that my dad can afford our mortgage. His unfulfilled dummies, in turn paying his unfulfilled property lease accommodating his unfulfilled hollow life.
Until, of course, he killed himself and became famous.