Paris: The Memoir(70)
I turned to my dad and asked, “How do I look?”
“Like one in a million,” he said, gripping my hand.
Instead of the cute little dress designed for this big occasion, I opted to wear a sleek pink tuxedo, and that choice holds up to history. A lot went into that look. Check it out. It reads classy, sexy, proud, and strong: the pink satin manifestation of “sorry not sorry.”
The door opened. Flashing lights and shouting poured in. There was nothing defensive about Dad’s stance as he walked me into the restaurant. His posture was proud, and he was smiling ear to ear.
Remember that sound cameras used to make? The click of the shutter followed by the whirring advance of film through the little drum? That click whirr click whirr click in rapid succession, multiplied times ten times ten times ten—it was like music to me back then, and I kinda miss it now. Digital cameras capture images in sterile silence most of the time. That visceral gotcha noise is optional. Back then, it was ubiquitous. (Isn’t that a great word? Ubiquitous: all over everything like Hollandaise sauce.) Sometimes when I’d lie in bed after a long night out, I could hear that sound along with the blood rushing in my head.
gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha
My first step back onto a big red carpet was at the 2004 Grammys.
“Paris! Paris! Look left! Paris, over here! What do you have to say about the sex tape? Wait! Paris, we just want to talk to you! Over here, Paris!”
gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha gotcha
Janet Jackson was scheduled to perform with Luther Vandross that night, but a week earlier, the infamous Super Bowl halftime “wardrobe malfunction” happened, so CBS/Viacom told her she was blacklisted and no longer invited to be part of the show. To his credit, during the acceptance speech for one of his multiple Grammy awards, Justin Timberlake did apologize for exposing Janet’s breast. So that’s not ironic or anything.
Look, I’m not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. I take full responsibility for the public and private choices I’ve made, and I’m not apologizing for any of it. I’m just saying, there’s plenty of shame to go around, and girls have traditionally dealt with more than our share. And we’re over it. I know I am, and I think Brit, Lindsay, Shannen, and a whole lot of other women would probably agree. Girl-shaming as a sport and industry needs to be over.
People say I invented the selfie, but that’s not true. The Grand Duchess Anastasia took pictures of herself a hundred years ago, and hundreds of years before cameras were a thing, artists were painting self-portraits. What I did as an influencer was strap a jet pack on the idea that I—the person in the photograph—deserve to benefit from that image more than people who create and sell images of me without my consent.
Since women like me and Kim made Instagram our bitch, the kind of paparazzi insanity that killed Princess Diana has all but disappeared. It’ll never be that way again. There’s still a market for candid pictures of celebs—especially if the celeb looks embarrassingly fat, skinny, ugly, drunk, or compromised in some way—so the paps are still out there, but it’s nothing like it was in 2003, when the street outside a club sometimes devolved to hard-core hand-to-hand combat with people fighting each other to get photos that sold for seven figures.
Ultimately, it’s about supply and demand. The demand is what it always was; you can trace it back to Helen of Troy. But now the supply is up to me.
The rise of selfie culture isn’t about vanity; it’s about women taking back control of our images—and our self-images. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Discuss amongst yourselves.
17
Facebook launched in February 2004, and I kept hearing about it, but it was for college students only.
“Don’t take it personally,” Nicky advised, and I didn’t, but it was a strange reminder that there was once a little girl called Star who dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. But I didn’t go to college. The people who were paid to educate me failed, so I’ve had to educate myself by doing, dreaming, and experimenting, by reading and listening, by screwing things up and fixing them again. I had to forage for my education on the all-you-can-learn buffet of life. My self-education is a collage of experiences glued together with towering role models.
Again: I was born to privilege. I’m not minimizing that. But I could have coasted, and I never did. I worked. And every time my life fell apart, I worked harder. One priceless bit of advice my great-grandfather gave my grandfather, and my grandfather gave me: “Success is never final. Failure is never fatal.”
I’ve seen both up close.
Anyway. No college. So, no Facebook for me in 2004. Probably for the best. I’m sure there was a lot of garbage gossip about me. I didn’t need that kind of negativity or distraction.
The Simple Life was a massive hit, and my business was booming. Working with Parlux Ltd., I started my lifestyle brand and released my first fragrance—Paris Hilton, female and male variations—which did so well, I decided to buy a big house. Wendy White helped me find a place on Kings Road above the Sunset Strip, and I remodeled it to include “Club Paris,” the ultimate after-party venue, with an amazing sound system, full bar, and pole-dancing pole.