I Must Always Play Comedy Because Of My Nose

I tried to explain everything to the casting agent. I was new in town. There was a small possibility that my reputation had not yet proceeded me. I even allowed myself to wonder if I might have more of a chance in this place. The women here were, on the whole, homelier looking. Some of the older specimens were downright ugly. I assumed this had something to do with the rain, or possibly the politics. They were always haranguing each other in the street about something or other. All that pent-up aggression couldn’t be good for a woman’s complexion. You could see the toll it was taking around the eyes and mouth. They were not a pretty breed of folk. Perhaps my nose would not be such a sticking point here.

I rang the casting agent well in advance of my audition. I made a point of it. Experience has taught me it is usually better to state my case on the telephone before casting agents get an eyeful and move swiftly on to the next actress in line. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed, and my nose requires all the forewarning it could get. It tends to arrive a good few minutes before the rest of my face. I am used to doing all I can to soften the blow.

“It’s about my nose,” I said when, the casting agent finally picked up the phone, “they told me I must always play comedy because of my nose but I’ve had a bellyful of comedy. I’d like to try out for the part of Lois. I know I can do a convincing Lois. You just need to get me in front of the director. You need to help me bypass my nose.”

The casting agent cleared his throat in a most dismissive fashion. I knew what he was going to say. No doubt he was used to hysterical young actresses imagining themselves hideous when in actuality, they were only dealing with a slightly pronounced chin or a tendency to freckle in the sun. “Listen, my dear,” he said, still with the same dismissive tone, “I’m sure your nose is nothing to worry about. Some men prefer a woman with strong features.” He proceeded to rattle off a number of Hollywood A-Listers: the girl with the bug eyes, the French chick with the prominent teeth, the pale one who looks like a gecko. All were distinctive, in their own way; striking but also beautiful, like the girls who come second in America’s Next Top Model. None of these actresses had a nose like mine.

“You don’t understand,” I said, interrupting the casting agent mid flow, “my nose isn’t an interesting feature. My nose is pretty much my entire face.” I became slightly hysterical then, reeling off various items which my nose resembled: a chicken drumstick, an aubergine, one of those scoop-like spoons you’re presented with in Chinese restaurants when you order chicken noodle soup. I knew he wasn’t listening properly. I’d been in this situation so many times before I expected my concerns to be swept aside. I did not need this man’s platitudes. There was no point pretending my nose wasn’t an issue. I needed a concrete plan for dealing with it. In the end, I lost my temper. I emailed over my latest headshot. As headshot’s go, it is not the worst. It is very artfully lit. And I’ve been working on my contouring. And there’s a fair amount of photoshopping involved. But you can still see the issue. My nose requires its own postcode.

 I heard the ping of my email arriving in his inbox. Then, the dry click as the casting director opened it and waited for the photo to download. It was high res. It took a few seconds. I knew it had completed downloading because the casting agent drew breath sharply and muttered, “bloody hell.” A damp pause followed. I wondered if he might hang up on me. He didn’t. He was clearly one of the progressive ones. “I’m sorry Love,” he eventually mumbled, “Lois is out of the question. With a nose like that…” I cut him off, “I know, I know,” I snapped, “I’ll always be playing comedy.”

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1949 novel, Crooked House