Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

mixture of amusement and amazement. Luckily for me, I had long been rebellious and they were used
to my crazy antics.
After a few days of recovery where I felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, I finally made
it to the mall to buy my first post-surgery bra. As I tried on a handful, I finally found a perfect fit. I
looked at the tag on the lacey white Victoria’s Secret Dream Angels bra: a 34D! The surgeon had told
me he couldn’t guarantee what size my breasts would end up being—I had asked for a C cup using a
topless photo of a Playmate as inspiration. I couldn’t believe I was a D cup—I was huge!
While I don’t regret the surgery (I couldn’t have been happier with my body), the credit card
debt would end up becoming too much for me to pay off in a timely manner—contributing to money
troubles that would end up haunting me in the years to come.
Shortly after the surgery, with roughly $100 in my bank account, I packed up my battered red
Toyota Celica and made my way, like countless girls before me, down the Pacific Coast for a chance
at “making it.” After two years at Portland State University, I transferred my credits to Loyola
Marymount, a private university about five miles south of Santa Monica. I was earning a double
major in psychology and theater arts and figured there was no better place to study acting than in L.A.
Student housing was already at capacity when I arrived, so transfer students were put up at a
hotel across from campus (two students to a room) until we could make other arrangements. I thought
it was so cool getting to live in a hotel and I didn’t want to have to move out after my first semester.
Not to mention, apartments in Los Angeles were really pricey and I was anxious about having to
eventually factor that into my already tight budget.
I hadn’t been in Southern California more than 24 hours before I realized I needed a relatively
well paying job—and quickly!
At a friend’s suggestion, I headed to the Hooters in Santa Monica to apply for a waitressing gig.
Much to my surprise, I was hired on the spot.
Thank God for my new boobs, I thought.
My first day on the job, the manager handed me the signature “Hooters Girl” outfit and motioned
for me to go change. When I emerged from the stall in the women’s restroom, I paused to take a long
look at myself in the mirror.
How can I go out on the floor in this outfit? I thought. I had never felt so naked in an outfit
before. The breeze of the air-conditioning went right through the thin tank top and tiny spandex shorts
as if I wore nothing at all. And the shorts were so tiny, the girls’ butt cheeks always hung out of the
bottoms. I often thought the restaurant should have been called Cheekers. The only blessing was the
nylons. Hooters Girls were required to wear tan pantyhose to make their legs look flawless, but to me
they also added a measure of decency.
Suck it up, Holly, I thought. My dream was always to make something of myself, and by
allowing me to afford to stay in L.A., this job was a means to that end. I had read an article about
Hooters Girls in Jane magazine that highlighted how much cash they earned in tips. There was no
way I was giving up this opportunity.
I fixed my hair, put a smile on my face, and walked out the door. And you know what? It really
wasn’t that bad. I soon learned to love my job.