[STORY] Sit. Skin’s dry — what’s your skincare routine?

It all started with a runway show I wasn’t supposed to be in.

That morning, I woke up with smudged eyeliner, a half-eaten shawarma on my bed, and a missed call from Lola, my best friend and stylist.

“Wake up, diva,” her voice boomed through the speaker when I called back. “You’re walking for Maison V. this afternoon.”

“What? Lola, that’s insane. I wasn’t even shortlisted!”

“Well,” she said, pausing dramatically, “you are now. Their lead model cancelled last minute. I sent them your photos — you’re welcome.”

My heart dropped. Maison V. wasn’t just any brand; it was the kind that trended on Vogue Africa and Instagram Explore for weeks.

I looked around my tiny apartment — skincare bottles, thrifted heels, and scattered vision boards that read things like ‘My glow-up season is coming’. Suddenly, it felt like maybe it really had.

The venue was chaos. Bright lights, makeup brushes, and designers yelling “Don’t wrinkle that silk!” filled the air. Models glided past in gowns worth more than my rent.

A makeup artist with pink hair stopped me mid-step. “You’re the replacement? Sit. Skin’s dry — what’s your skincare routine?”

“Uh, moisturizer… and prayer?” I replied.

She laughed. “Girl, we’re gonna fix that.”

Ten minutes later, my reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable — glowing skin, winged eyeliner, and the kind of confidence you only see on magazine covers.

“Remember,” Lola said, adjusting my gown, “runway modeling isn’t just about walking. It’s storytelling with your steps.”

I nodded, pretending not to feel the sweat rolling down my back.

When my turn came, I walked out — head high, posture perfect, just like I practiced watching Naomi Campbell videos on YouTube.

The lights flashed, cameras clicked, and the crowd murmured — not in applause, but confusion.

Then, I saw it.

The dress I was wearing — a glittering silver gown — had a rip running from my hip down to my thigh. Every step made it worse.

Someone in the audience gasped. A photographer zoomed in.

In my panic, I froze. But then, something inside me snapped — not the fabric, but fear itself.

I smiled, turned dramatically, and strutted back, owning the rip like it was part of the design. A few people even clapped.

By the time I exited the runway, Lola ran to me, breathless.

“Are you insane? You turned a wardrobe malfunction into a moment!”

The next morning, my phone exploded.

#SilverDressGirl was trending.

Comments flooded in:

“This girl just redefined fashion confidence.”

“Who needs perfection when you can own imperfection?”

“Iconic. Real. Authentic. Gen Z energy.”

Fashion blogs started tagging me in posts about “how to embrace flaws on the runway.” I gained 40,000 new followers overnight.

Brands reached out. One even sent me a PR box of luxury skincare products with a note:

“For the girl who made us remember why fashion is human.”

Weeks later, I stood in front of my mirror again — no glam team, no designer dress, just me in an oversized tee and bare face.

Lola called. “You ready for the interview?”

“Almost,” I said, applying my lip gloss — the only makeup I could afford before all this started.

I smiled at my reflection. “You know, I used to think beauty was about hiding flaws. But now I know — it’s about owning them.”

Lola laughed. “Say that again in your Vogue voice.”

“Beauty,” I said, grinning, “isn’t about perfection — it’s about presence.”