About 2 years ago, one of my close friends asked me to model for a photoshoot. She’s an amazing photographer and hasn’t shot any men — yet. I’m known to dress very fashionably so naturally, I was picked. By my math, I’ve spent a stupid amount of money on designer clothes over the years — about 6 figures worth. Should I feel bad about it? Maybe? Nah. This suit feels like a million bucks — made of the finest fabric from Italy no less. I’ve more or less stopped shopping, but my closet is a masterpiece of its own.
I’ve made up various excuses in those two years why I’m not willing to be photographed. Her favorite is:
Her: Danny, would you model for my photos?
Me: I can’t. The Native Americans believed a picture takes away a part of your soul. I think it’s true.
After being reminded how fucking old I’m getting and inching towards 30, I finally gave in and agreed. Quite honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. It was surprisingly new and refreshing being the camera’s center of attention. We did two looks: one in a suit and the other a greaser-rocker look.
After several hours and even getting kicked out of a building, we had hundreds of very fashiony shots. The photos are being edited and I can’t wait to see the final result. Here’s a sneak peek.
Is it pretentious to say I’m going to have all the photos printed into a hardcover book? It’ll be a nice keepsake when I’m past 40 and my spoiled kids wanna have a laugh at their dad. Fuck. Yes. Later world.