That night, Erika and I attended Kara’s dinner. I lived an au naturel life in Vegas—quite unorthodox for that city—and we dressed very casually day-to-day. I had packed some of my most voguish attire but ended up recycling the same outfit over and over again. We had become very unmotivated by the events unfolding around us.
The hostess escorted us to a private room at a swanky restaurant in the hotel. We were the first to arrive, but Steven, Kara, Andrew, and another gentleman joined us soon after. Once we all sat down at the round table for six, the staff closed the curtains. Considering the improper dinner conversation that would take place throughout the night, I turned out to be glad it was private.
While hanging out with the staff of Miss Universe could have been amusing in another scenario, I was feeling completely shattered at that moment. I had raced a really tough road to get to this point and now that I was here, I was constantly being challenged by unacceptable engagements and complications. And all I craved was some resolution and reward, or at least a little recognition.
The dinner guests became increasingly drunk and more comfortable with one another. They shared what seemed to me like many intimate stories about the organization—rivalries, how outrageous their last sponsors were, drug usage, weight issues, and much more. I thought the trash-talking session was inappropriate, but who am I to say? And of course, as an outsider and newcomer to the group, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by all the scandal. Andrew asked me to share my experiences in Iran with his colleague. It wasn’t the right setting to go into detail, so I gave the CliffsNotes version. His all-American, preppy-looking colleague said, “That sucks, so now if your boyfriend wanted to lash you, you wouldn’t like it?” The entire table fell silent. Everyone knew his comment was absurdly out of line.
I looked at him squarely in the eyes and replied, “It must be very unfortunate to be so uncultured.” Steven and Kara quickly redirected this heated conversation to a new and just as awkward topic—everyone’s favorite sexual positions. I excused myself from the dinner table to go outside and get some fresh air.
I paced back and forth outside the restaurant for a few minutes to collect my thoughts. Why am I here? I pulled out my phone and looked through all the missed calls from everyone who I had been avoiding because I didn’t want to tell them how disappointed I was by this experience. I redialed Maman’s phone number, wanting to feel a sense of comfort, but immediately hung up and called Eric instead.
“Hello Tala, what’s up? I’m about to get on a plane,” Eric responded in a rush.
I said, “Oh no worries, just wanted to see how you were doing.”
Eric, who knew my voice very well, replied: “Are you overwhelmed? Anything I can do to help?”
I took a few seconds and then hesitantly said: “Is it too late to take all this back? This is not what I had expected. I don’t—”
Eric instantly cut me off. “Do the best that you can, Tala, and that is all that you can do. I have to run, will give you a ring later.”
Behind me was the entrance of the hotel. I wanted to run out, get in a cab, and head to the airport. I simply didn’t trust that this was a match made in heaven anymore. Surely it wouldn’t be this difficult if it were. But instead, I stepped forward and went back to the dinner table to “do the best that I could,” because I couldn’t let Eric down, or the contestants and those who still believed in my mission.
After the dreadful dinner finally came to an end, Erika and I walked back through the hallways to our decrepit room. We replayed the day and the dinner and were both stupefied. We couldn’t understand how some of these people could be in charge of such remarkable women.
Over the next few days, we got shuffled from one event to another. We were forced to play our schedule by ear, since we didn’t know which events we were invited to until a few hours, or even minutes, beforehand. We were supposed to use these events as opportunities to get press for Dar Be Dar, so when we found out that there were some swimwear gatherings we weren’t invited to, we were understandably irritated. Why else would we have come to Vegas for so many weeks before the start of the pageant?
One night, I received a phone call from Steven asking whether we could join him, Andrew, and some of the contestants for the soft opening of a club. Upon our arrival, the contestants posed on the red carpet, displaying their sashes in short party dresses in front of the flashing lights of cameras. Erika, Steven, Andrew, and I stood back and watched. When we entered the club, cocktail waitresses escorted us to a table with empty Grey Goose bottles. The entire production was set up to shoot the women dancing and having a blast, and then the club would use the footage for advertising on the night of the pageant. Even though there was fake alcohol on the table for the shoot, the women were offered real alcoholic beverages.
A camera crew directed the women to dance on top of the tables, in the middle of the crowded dance floor, and on podiums. And this was empowering, how? It was especially disturbing because I thought some of the girls were under twenty-one and didn’t speak a word of English. I have absolutely no problem with people dancing on tables in clubs. Perhaps I have done it myself, but not with a sash on. I did it because I wanted to, not because I was told to.
The following morning, there was a photo shoot set up with the contestants featuring Dar Be Dar bikinis. These images would be shared across a Miss Universe magazine, and Erika and I were eager to use them for promotional purposes and to create more momentum around the sponsorship. We arrived to the shoot bright and early. Shockingly, I was greeted by some contestants who were not in my swimwear. At my own photo shoot! Seeing other swimwear brands felt outrageous.
Concrete walls covered the pool area so that any outsiders couldn’t peer into the exclusive space. The contestants were photographed covered in multicolored body paint. Makeup artists tediously painted the women’s bodies in bright designs. Once they were ready, they posed around the beach club; some lay by the pool or on chaise lounges while others stood against palm trees or climbed the walls. It was enthralling to observe all the girls and see how far they were willing to push themselves.
In an unexpected twist, the Miss Universe Organization gave the girls the option of going topless. I think they were excited about the stir it would create in the media. Some contestants seemed tenser than others about the nudity, and I believe only a few women actually went topless, including Miss USA, Rima Fakih. This gorgeous girl was a Muslim originally from Lebanon—the first Muslim woman to be crowned Miss USA. I admired the fact that she could express herself freely and not hold back, even though she knew there could be a backlash from the Muslim community. She looked beautiful.
An hour into the shoot, I was interviewing with Access Hollywood when I felt the energy on the set suddenly shift. The staff tidied the pool area, and the contestants were asked to fix themselves up and line up along the wall. I thought either God or Donald Trump was about to walk in.
The Miss Universe staff told the contestants to scream, “We love you Farouk!” Farouk is the founder of Farouk Systems, the makers of the CHI ceramic hairstyling iron and the official hair-care sponsor for the Miss Universe, Miss USA, and Miss Teen pageants. The company had paid millions to be the sponsor over the last seven years. Farouk entered the pool area, in the searing Nevada heat, wearing a black pinstripe suit paired with red cowboy boots and a red tie to match. Half-naked girls, from eighteen years old to their midtwenties, with paint all over their bodies, screamed, “We love you Farouk! We love CHI!” Erika and I couldn’t peel ourselves away. The scene was absolutely ridiculous. He hugged some of the girls and posed with them for photos.
All of a sudden the world had stopped because a big sponsor with more money had arrived. I mean, I totally get it, money talks! But the interaction seemed completely staged, and quite frankly, I found it pretty disturbing. During this absurd spectacle, I told Erika, “I guess we are not cool anymore. Let’s get out of here.” And if you were wondering, no one even noticed that we left a shoot that was supposed to feature my line.
Around midnight that night, I was already tucked away in bed, depressed and cuddling my bikinis, when I received a phone call. It was one of the stylists working on the NBC TV segment. I was pleased and relieved to hear from him. This meant it was actually going to happen.
This segment would star Stefanía Fernández and was the most media exposure I would receive as the sponsor. Millions of people would see it—six million Americans and half a billion people worldwide, to be more exact. He told me that the shoot was scheduled to take place the following day at 8:00 a.m. at the Moorea Beach Club. Erika and I had been requesting the scheduling for this event for weeks on end, and now we were being told that it was happening in less than eight hours?
The next day, I went on set in a sour mood. The Moorea Beach Club was a private pool at the Mandalay Bay, with dipping pools, red-cushioned chaise lounges, relaxing beds, and a private pavilion. Stefanía was wearing a black-and-white pin-striped Dar Be Dar suit. She was a beautiful, tall, curvy girl with short brown hair. The hairstylists and makeup artists were already in the middle of preparing her hair and makeup. We didn’t have any say about the vision or direction of the shoot; all I was allowed to do was provide one of the stylists with a few different bikini styles for the star to wear on set. With nothing much to do, Erika and I sat back and watched the mayhem unfold. I couldn’t help thinking what would’ve happened—or not happened—if I hadn’t answered my phone at midnight the night before.
Suddenly a crowd of about twenty-five beefy men and very tan women in their midtwenties appeared on set. The women were already in cheesy-looking swimsuits, which were not Dar Be Dar bikinis. They were asked to hang around the pool and make it look like Stefanía was at a pool party.
I felt like I was at an alcohol-fueled crazy pool rave on an episode of Jersey Shore. The entire scene was tasteless. I watched my vision get botched by a bunch of muscled, tacky men parading around my swimwear. They danced and fist-pumped behind the pool, or lay around in beach chairs flexing their muscles. Stefanía lay by the edge of the pool in front of them like a goddess. It wasn’t the TV segment I had envisioned to represent my brand.