By Angela Seneviratne
About this time of the year, there is usually much ado and excitement in the beauty industry with a series of “Misses” being organised.
I have truly lost track of just how many title-holders we have a year and for what contest Sri Lanka is sent for. The credibility of the so-called international contests and the local franchise holders are far too questionable.
The panel of judges range from the spasmodic bedmate of the franchise holder to the bridal dresser of the franchise holder’s ex-girlfriend, a onetime ex-beauty queen whose wealthy husband bought her a crown, and such like, all of whom know very little of the beauty criteria necessary. The contestants themselves are in the running just for the title, whatever it may be. One of the recent winners was not even sure of what the international contest she was being sent for was!
There are the high strata contests that draw the more knowledgeable contestants, but there again I wonder why they have such a short time of training and preparation for representation in a world contest.
We have the kind of contestants who just will NOT give up. They will enter every single contest with that hope that they will win someday. I dare say, I admire their confidence.
More than the girls themselves, I need to mention their over ambitious mommies who want to relive their own desires of adorning a crown by pushing their daughters.
Contests nowadays – although they are basically the same as they were decades ago – have some extra b***hcraft. Halfway through the preliminaries, whispers make their rounds of a favoured few, and probable winners. Anxious parents pace the floor seemingly cordial on the outside, but seething green inside.
I, at most times, do not know what is going on anymore, and that is a strange statement to make, having been in the industry for so long. But the thing is, the undercurrents are too strong, if you can understand my drift.
Take the preliminary parades for starters…the ones in which the contestants are instructed to turn up in smart attire, aka. a business suit. They turn up in sequined minis and stilettos they cannot balance on, wobble their way to the head table, and “uhm”,”er”, “yeah”, and “like” their way through unsure replies. Even the judges convey a sense of hesitancy, one prompting the other to begin the interviews.
The first public parade, generally in some sportswear, has them gyrating in mock sports action in slow motion before strutting down the catwalk. They all have numbers so that the judges can keep track. I do not know any more if they are rated at this point, but if one of them falls off the ramp, the judges will take notice and they will be disqualified, hopefully, making it easier for the final count of one less.
There was actually a time – believe it or not – that contestants sashayed down the catwalk in saree. I do not see that happening anymore. Instead, the swimsuit parade which used to be a closed-door viewing for the panel of judges is now public and can be viewed, criticised, and made a mockery of on social media too.
Thank heavens, the talent show is a mini contest and not everyone gets to suffer through various displays of what they consider talent.
Then they all line up in their evening dresses, now more often than not of the same design and colour, so they all look like uniform beans.
The most hilarious part of any pageant is how they all want to change the world and care for the poor. The pledges are most often than not forgotten the moment they pull off their dresses that night or when they pass through Bandaranaike International Airport on their way out.
When they are all narrowed down to the final three is when sparks are very visible, faces fall – there may be a haughty stamp of heels and an unrehearsed exit from the stage.
Ah! We will never learn. Instead, more enterprising franchise holders will make it a money spinning business to lure these crown hunters to compete, and we will have more and more “Misses” and the “missed”.