17 Target on My Thighs
SEVENTEEN
Target on My Thighs
I first sensed that the paparazzi was going to be a major problem when I started dating Stephen Colletti, who was one of the stars of the MTV reality series Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County.
Stephen was the heartthrob at the center of the show’s first season love triangle, consisting of him, Lauren Conrad, and Kristin Cavallari.
That drama, coupled with the show’s huge, unexpected popularity, made him a tabloid favorite.
He and I met through my former publicist. I didn’t really watch the show, but I’d seen Stephen in a magazine, thought he was cute, and asked her to hook us up.
She did and sparks flew. Stephen was my first Hollywood boyfriend, and in a lot of ways, he showed me the ropes—especially when it came to the press.
For example, the first time Stephen and I ventured out shopping together, a trail of cameras followed us, taking photos from every angle while they yelled our names. When we walked into a store, Stephen knew exactly what to do, and he approached the manager.
“Can you lower the shades?” he asked. “There are about ten tabloid photographers out there. I’m sure your other customers don’t want to be bothered while they’re shopping.”
After that, we always called managers ahead of time to prepare them.
I wasn’t always with Stephen, though, so I frequently had to fend for myself.
For example, almost immediately after Heroes premiered, photographers began camping outside the Universal Studios set in Hollywood, waiting for me to leave.
When my car came into view, they lined up behind it, then sped up and passed to get a picture of me.
Sometimes they boxed me in, with cameras flashing on both sides of me, and more than once they raced through red lights to catch up to me.
I found it absolutely terrifying to be driving down the 101 or Hollywood Boulevard and get passed—sometimes on the shoulder—by a speeding car with a camera lens extending out the window or the sunroof.
If I’d crashed my car, I’m positive it would have been a dream come true for them.
Also, just to remind you, I was seventeen.
In the early 2000s, tabloids were obsessed with actors’ bodies, and they devoted entire covers to the “circle of shame,” where they circled fat rolls, dimpled skin, cellulite, or any number of body “flaws” that even the most fit and toned women get.
It didn’t take long for me to stop wanting to go to the beach, knowing that every uncovered part of me would land somewhere in a magazine.
I didn’t have to be on the beach for this to happen, though.
A paparazzi photographer once snapped a photo of me in a pair of cutoffs, leaning over a counter so that you could see the back of my thighs.
A magazine published it with a banner over my legs, featuring one word: CELLULITE.
I suffered from body dysmorphia for years because of that, believing that no matter how strong, thin, or young I was, there was no escaping the dreaded cottage cheese thighs.
The words in print were horrible, but the comments I received were even worse. I remember once getting in my car only to be approached by a photographer. He had his camera out, and he was talking fast.
“Hey, Hayden, looks like you just started driving. When are you going to get your first DUI?”
I didn’t respond, so he kept talking.
“Come on, give us a smile, honey. You’re so beautiful, so sexy. C’mon, give us one of your sexy smiles.”
I was seventeen.
At one of the many industry events I attended during the first season of Heroes, I made my way through a crowd of people toward the entrance.
A swarm of cameras was massed right at the door, and a publicist navigated me through them.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in the back of my leg, like someone had just kicked me.
I scrunched up my face in pain and turned to look, and I noticed a photographer with her camera raised.
“Hi, Hayden, smile!” she yelled.
This woman had kicked me just to get a photo.
It’s easy to say that I could have pressed charges against her, but it’s much harder to do.
If I’d gone to the cops, my case would become public, and I would have found myself in the middle of a tabloid spectacle.
I suppose I also could have confronted her verbally, but a photographer would have taken a photo of me red-faced, looking out of control.
When you’re in the public eye, you’re remembered for the last thing you did, and—trust me—a fuming, raging seventeen-year-old on the cover of a magazine is pretty memorable.
It also sells a lot of copies. I wanted people to know me for the work I did on a set, not the chaos I faced when I was off one.
It used to be that there was an air of mystery around celebrities.
There was an unspoken contract between photographers and people in the industry that allowed for privacy and respect, and if those boundaries were violated, a news organization would never again get an interview.
But in the early 2000s—which have often been called the “gold rush” for paparazzi—the opposite was true.
There’s a fine line between freedom of the press and stalking, and in the 2000s, the tabloids crossed that line again and again, with few repercussions.
Navigating the press became a second job for a lot of actors, and it was one they felt forced to do.
I once had a paparazzi photographer yell at me, “Smile! This is your job! You signed up for this.” I wanted to scream at him that I didn’t, that it was the other way around. He had signed up to target me.
In 2006, social media was not an integral part of celebrities’ lives.
If the paparazzi took an unflattering photo of you, or if a tabloid said something hurtful or untruthful, you had no way to defend yourself immediately.
Today, if I do a poor interview or take an awful photo, I can go on Instagram and tell my side of the story right away, and I’ll be met with positive feedback from fans that takes the sting away.
It wasn’t like that in 2006. I was raw meat laid out for a bunch of hyenas to devour every single day.
The early 2000s also marked the beginning of tabloid blogging, which led to a huge shift in celebrity journalism.
There was TMZ, Perez Hilton, Just Jared, and hundreds of others, many of whom made names for themselves by tearing celebrities apart.
The harsher they were, the more clicks they got, so they became more aggressive.
You couldn’t turn around without seeing your name, face, or thighs plastered—then made fun of—on a blog, and it was available to anyone and everyone, 24/7, entirely free.
I wish I’d been able to navigate this new world better, but I didn’t have anyone to hand me a road map except for Stephen and my former team.
Not even Mom was prepared for it. Honestly, all the attention and pressure overwhelmed and exhausted me.
Not only was I expected to be on top of my game in all respects—socially, privately, and in the press—but I had to push myself to fit into a city and a culture that was mostly foreign to me.
No journalist ever stalked me after Racing Stripes.
Now, here I was, being chased every time I left my condo.
Doing media felt like second nature to me because I’d been in front of cameras for so many years, but my old team sometimes complained that I got easily distracted, a practice I call “squirreling.” I’ve always been a squirrel—probably due to my nerves or short attention span—but growing up no one paid it any mind.
During Heroes, I always needed to be on point and full of energy in front of the press.
If I squirreled or got run down while answering the same questions over and over, it could become an issue.
At one industry event when I was around sixteen, a former rep pulled me aside before I stepped onto the red carpet.
“Here, take one of these,” she said, placing a pill in my hands and holding out a bottle of water. “It’s a happy pill.”
I didn’t ask questions, and she didn’t formally seek my consent, but I didn’t think twice.
I trusted the people I worked with—especially my team—so I popped the pill in my mouth and swallowed.
Within minutes, a wave of energy washed over me, like I’d just woken up from the most refreshing night’s sleep of my life.
I blinked my eyes and felt the corners of my mouth turning up, then my jaw relaxing.
I looked around and noticed how bright the lights were and how red the carpet was, then I saw a cascade of crisp, vibrant colors as people walked past me in their gowns.
“I’m ready,” I chirped. “Let’s do this.”
When I stepped onto the carpet, my brain was firing on all cylinders. My interview was animated, exciting, and straightforward in a way no interview had ever been. All the chaos in my head vanished, and when it was over, I couldn’t wait to walk into the event and chat everyone’s ear off.
I’d always been a social butterfly, but sometimes I lost my focus and confidence. With this happy pill, I was a brand-new Hayden.
Within a few months, my former rep didn’t need to surreptitiously pass me pills anymore.
Instead, before every interview, I asked her for one.
I hadn’t questioned what the pills were made of or where she got them, nor had I mentioned them to Mom, who wouldn’t have approved.
But one day, I decided I had to know the details.
“Where can I get these myself?” I asked.
“My brother gets them from Mexico,” she whispered.