Stephen sets them loose on pretty much one rack in his showroom, and I get that feeling watching them that I get when I'm choosing a bowling ball. Initial excitement gives way to the bullshit minutiae of the chore: one's the right weight, but the holes are too small. One looks good from afar, but some dink gets to it before you have a chance. One's completely perfect in every way other than it being pink, which makes your friends deem you a faggotty bowler. Whatever. This happened to a friend of mine. The four girls take a montage (getting awfully close to your limit there, ladies), and turn back to the camera wearing the outfits they find themselves most sexy in. April goes first. She is wearing a long, white trench coat a lot like the one the guy who sold candy outside the gates of my elementary school sold until one day he opened his trench coat and didn't come around to sell candy anymore because he must have gone to work for another school. I guess he was hired by the district or something. I never really thought too much about it. Stephen deems the raincoat "completely wrong," which is just what the attending officer told the guy at my school. See? This is why I always go poncho.
Shandi is looking awfully sticklike in a black tank top and gray pants. I think she looks fab, but Stephen believes the pants are skewing a little too big, even though the cut of the pants still seems to reside squarely in the negative integers. He tells her that she has better legs than she thinks she does. Mercedes, on the other hand, needs to be elongated. Yoanna steps out in an all-black ensemble, which works just fine until the jacket comes off and we find her in a shirt that doesn't cover her stomach. One, two, three close-ups on it later, Stephen narrates from the sizable deck of the U.S.S. Backfat, "Yoanna has one problem. And it's the midriff." But Yoanna -- rested and supplicating herself before St. LaLanne, The Patron Saint Of Reshaping Womenly Curves -- reminds herself that Tyra told them that no model is perfect. As thanks for their ability to fail so grandly wearing clothes of his own design, Mr. Fairchild, Patron Saint Of Surprise-Ending Heterosexuality (more to come on this), reoutfits all of the women in his own image. Mercedes, surveying her black suit and black-and-white checkered pageboy hat, tells us, "It's about clothes fitting to your body properly and having a little pizzazz." Awwwww, look who Googled "Italian fashion"! Mercedes then takes off her hat, calling its designer "gov'nah," and begins administering the best shoeshine the town's ever seen, without even knowing she was doing it. That's how powerful that hat is.