The ladies are called back to the Cutting Room. April, congratulations. You're still in the running towards becoming America's Next Top Model. As is Yoanna. And Merecedes. And Shandi. And Sara.
Camille and Catie step forward. We already know the story: Catie is a basket case, Camille is too in control. "Even right now, Camille, hard as nails," Tyra continues. Anyway, Camille gets the photo and Catie is done. Are there tears? Good god, yes. And background tracks that sound like a Journey song.
Alone at the ZoLoft, Catie cries and packs, packs and cries. She snipes at a mirror, "I [bleep]ing cut off all my hair for this [bleep]," which I want to find hilarious but can't on account of the time I screamed in the face of someone breaking up with me, "I cut my hair for you. I fucking cut my HAIR for you." That would make an excellent line of a play as a character descends into madness. Perhaps a play about nineteenth-century France, where the hair could even have made her some money. Catie chips a nail and blames it on god, and tells us she'll return to L.A. "and make it on my own." Honey, seriously, don't do it on your own. Take a plane, for Chrissakes. Oh, yeah. That's right. Afraid of heights.