keep your chin up

the morning procedure of transforming into an actor's likeness is akin to the scene when dorothy's motley quartet are treated to makeovers upon arriving in emerald city. brush brush here, prod prod there, and a couple of oy gevalts, that's how i get my wig installed in the merry old land of oz.

dressed in fancy duds, with a perfectly-coiffed hairdo, i strode regally onto the sound stage, only to be directed to lie face down on a staircase. earlier, a stunt performer established this position by launching himself headfirst. the steps were replaced with cushioned versions to soften the stuntman's descent, but currently the hard surface had returned, which offered no comfort.

while the edges of the stairs embedded into my quads and compromised my crotch space, blood rushed to my head. i attempted to squirm into a more comfortable position but the wardrobe mistress instructed me to remain still so as to maintain continuity of the clothing. thus, i lay awkwardly across the wooden staircase, with the wig shielding my vision other than the step under my chin.

suddenly, a synthetic citrus scent wafted my way, followed by a glimpse of dirty yarn strands. a parade of keens stepped in and out of view, amplified by my ear's proximity to the board. two pairs of steel toes stopped next to me, and i felt a tube inserted through the sliced hole in my coat. a smoky mist slowly dissipated through the slit, and the special effects crew bolted as the camera rolled.

concerned that the wardrobe mistress would be disappointed if i shifted position, i froze, prone. the steel toes returned to reset their smoke effect, and one of them spied some schmutz on my trousers. i petitioned that he not draw attention to my sullied outfit, but it was inevitable. within moments, the mistress was furiously removing the mess, admonishing my carelessness. as this event postponed the roll, the whole studio was focussed on a woman wiping my tush.