When I first hit Paris to walk for Givenchy, I was nineteen and you couldn’t tell me squat. So when I saw that cabaret chanteuse Sherry Rogers was in town performing, I invited some of the crew to her show. She’s my cousin, you see. But then I got grand. I sent a note backstage that I was in the audience and would love to visit and say hello. She replied, “Dinner plans. Sorry.” Broke. My. Face. Sherry wasn’t feeling me or anyone from the Bronx. Bitch didn’t even come home for her mother’s funeral. Okay? Years later though, she had the balls to send a note backstage to me after a Versace show. She and her granddaughter were there and she wrote, “my baby is dying to meet her supermodel cousin.” You know I had to drag her, right? How could I resist? I wrote back— “Sorry diva. Dinner plans—”
I haven’t heard from Cousin Sherry since.