‘I was the shyest girl’: How Samantha Harris almost missed her modelling break

As a child, my height made me feel like a giant to be gawked at. It was as if I was taking up too much space. But the way my shyness drew me inwards almost made me feel like I was nothing but air. The loneliness and isolation I felt in class, at lunch, and even in group projects started to feel so heavy.

As much as Mum always tried to build me up and encourage me to embrace who I was, she knew she sometimes needed extra support. When I was 12, she enrolled me in a modelling course run locally by Katrina’s School of Beauty to increase my confidence. While I have no doubt Mum wanted me to hold my head high in whatever room I walked into, I suspect she was sure that people would think I was mute if I didn’t start contributing to conversations. It’s not that I never spoke, or didn’t have much to say. It’s just that on the rare occasions I was brave enough to say something, I was so softly spoken that it came out as a whisper.

Samantha Harris, as she appeared in a Vogue Australia editorial in 2010. Credit: Nicole Bentley

I liked playing with my hair and using make-up, so I enjoyed the course. But it didn’t matter how many concealing and contouring techniques I learnt, I still found it hard to interact with the other girls. I looked different from them, and I didn’t like it.

Perhaps that’s the real reason I didn’t try to start or continue conversations. I wanted to draw as little attention as possible to the fact that I wasn’t like everyone else. Which, by the way, was easy to do at the school’s end-of-year, Christmas-themed runway show. How do you blend a five-foot, 11-inch girl into a group of five-foot-nothings? You cover them all in green tinsel and send them out looking like Christmas trees.

The irony is not lost on me that the shyest girl in the world, who wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, wanted to be a professional model. And yet, in early 2004 at age 13, I wanted nothing more than to compete in the upcoming Girlfriend Model Search. It was sponsored by Chic Model Management, a big-time modelling agency. Even if you didn’t win first place, there was a chance you could still be signed.

Harris in Witchery’s White Shirt campaign in 2024.

Unfortunately, there were two things working against me. The first was that Mum and I only found out about the competition two days before it was happening. The second? It was being held in Brisbane. Seeing as I thought the 45-minute bus ride to Surfers Paradise from Tweed Heads was far, Brisbane might as well have been a whole other world away.

Figuring it would be too expensive to make the two-hour trip, especially since Mum couldn’t leave my brother Chris, who was only three at the time, I was surprised when I heard her on the phone with someone from the competition. After the call, Mum relayed that it was too late to accept my entry form by mail, but I could still enter if I came in person.

For what felt like hours, she paced around our kitchen, ringing up every Indigenous organisation she could think of, asking for financial assistance. She also called a few organisations that provided funding for kids from all backgrounds who showed promise in sport or academics.

Trying to listen in on Mum’s conversation by getting a glass of water, I heard a woman’s voice coming through the phone ask, “What sport is it?”

Mum, who’s usually always confident, hesitated before answering, “I don’t know if you’re going to class this as a sport ... but ... it’s modelling.”

Making no effort to soften her words, the woman flatly said, ‘Australia isn’t ready for an Aboriginal model.’

“An Aboriginal model?”

“That’s right,” Mum replied.

“No, we don’t fund that.”

Growing visibly frustrated, Mum added, “Not all Aboriginal kids play sport, and I know you have funding for Aboriginal children who are doing well in their chosen field.”

Making no effort to soften her words, the woman flatly said, “Australia isn’t ready for an Aboriginal model.”

Mum hung up, but not before delivering some stern you’re-going-to-regret-this-one-day words.

Her final call was made to a lady she knew at Krurungal Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander Corporation, which supports Indigenous families. After explaining that I had the opportunity to compete in Australia’s longest-running model search the following morning, she gave one final plea for them to cover costs. Thankfully, the voice I heard this time said she was pretty sure they could help with bus and train tickets, as well as a night in a hotel right next to the shopping centre where the event was going to be held.

The smile beaming from Mum’s face could have lit up Suncorp Stadium. That evening, we scraped together loose change and non-perishable food and got to work figuring out what I was going to wear. With no time for Mum to work her op-shop magic, I decided on my favourite little black tank and a pair of black pants. Detailed with light pink lace and pinstripes, this tank was what the early 2000s’ fashion dreams were made of.

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We left the house at the crack of dawn to catch the bus from Tweed Heads to Robina on the Gold Coast. From Robina, the plan was to take the train to Brisbane and then another bus to the hotel. These were the days before everyone had smartphones, so Mum had our departure times and bus lines written on the back of an envelope. Even though we’d been forced to wake up at 4am, and there was nothing to entertain us other than the view from a bus or train window, Chris and I might as well have been kids on Christmas morning. We’d been on buses before, but we’d never taken a train or stayed in a hotel.

When we arrived at the bus terminal, rain slapped against our bodies in horizontal sheets. Relieved that we’d made it without getting lost, I was confused when Mum stood frozen on the footpath. First, I wondered if she’d forgotten to write down the address of the hotel, but the look of terror on her face made me think it was something else.

Chris, always sensitive to the people around him, grabbed Mum’s hand. Following his lead, I grabbed the other and asked if she was okay. She managed to mumble something about the wind but couldn’t really speak. We stood in place for a while, comforting Mum and telling her everything would be alright. We just needed to put one foot in front of the other.

It could have been the climate-controlled conditions, but Mum did manage to relax once inside the hotel. Unfortunately, that lasted all of about 15 minutes. Once checked in, we needed to take the lift. While Mum’s reaction to the wind caught me off-guard, her reaction to using a lift did not. For as long as I can remember, Mum has been petrified of riding in a lift. I don’t know if something happened or if she just hates the idea of being trapped in a box that’s suspended by cables, but I’ve watched her push women out of a lift because she was worried about the weight capacity.

For Chris and me, on the other hand, riding in a lift was like taking a trip to Disneyland. It took some coaxing and a family huddle, but we were able to comfort Mum and talk her into catching the lift. Once in the room, Mum was finally back to her regular self, instructing me to get Chris in the bath and to hang out our clothes while she unpacked.

An hour or so later, there was a knock on the door. Fearing it was someone coming to tell us we had the wrong hotel and would have to leave, I was relieved and excited to find that it was room service. Apparently, when the lady from Krurungal booked our room for the night, she’d also ordered and paid for dinner for us. Mum reminded me about this recently and said that she will always be grateful for the support we received from the Krurungal team, and from that lady in particular.

Edited extract from Role Model (Murdoch Books) by Samantha Harris and Myrna Davison, out now.

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