There were girls of all shapes and sizes: girls with Mohawks and extensions, girls with multiple piercings and tattoos. Everywhere I turned, there were girls.

Waiting among hundreds of other contestants for America’s Next Top Model, I was clearly out of place. While others fixed their make-up in heart-shaped mirrors or read Glamour magazine, I sat quietly reading The New York Times and attempted the crossword puzzle.

I arrived hours before the casting was officially called to assure myself a good place in line — although unfortunately, that meant waking up at sunrise, an time not often seen by most college students on the weekend.

Walking up to shining lights of the Park Plaza Hotel and Towers, I already felt like a million bucks. Pulling open the gold-handled doors and shuffling through the proceeding revolving door, I made my way inside to the impressive reception area. A bellhop approached me and — without even asking who I was — pointed me toward a staircase that led to a ballroom where the casting was taking place.

Many of the model hopefuls were anxious and excited, having traveled hours to come to the casting call. Some listened to their iPods, ignoring all the drama around them, while others began bonding with other contestants.

One girl said she woke up at 5 a.m. to drive to the casting call, along with her best friend and boyfriend. She had auditioned for other modeling jobs before, but had never been chosen. Still, she said that instead of being discouraged, she just put more effort into her dream. “Remember to smile,” she said to surrounding girls, relaying a text message she received from a supportive friend.

Despite the energy in the room, most of my time was spent sitting in chair, left with nothing to do but stare and examine my competition. In a scene straight out of The Breakfast Club, each girl had her own persona that she projected for the show. Instead of the brain, beauty, jock, rebel and recluse, there were the intellects, the girls-next-door, the sporty girls and — as always — the rebels and recluses.

One rebel, for instance, was only about 5-foot-2 but wore sky-high heels and spiked her Mohawk to reach the extra five inches she needed to compete. That is pure determination.

After waiting a few hours in the main holding area, my group of 25 girls was asked to stand in a line and wait to go into the judging area. For most, this might have been the most stressful part.

We were standing on the side of the room, just waiting for the call to walk forward. Some began to sing the Backstreet Boys’ “We’ve Got It Going On” and hip-hop songs like “Pump It Up” to help get energized, while others finished off cans of Red Bull or took deep breaths.

Then came the walk into the judging room. Each girl checked her posture, trying to look her best. Preparing for the worst, picturing an American Idol-like panel of Simon Cowells, I was relieved when I saw the man behind the video camera wearing a cowboy hat and whistling the theme song to Indiana Jones.

We were asked to stare at a sheet of paper with a picture of Tyra Banks that hung beneath the camera, and to state our name, age, height and weight. The judges then talked among themselves, and after a few minutes they called out the numbers of those who would continue onto the next round.

After waiting nearly four hours to get my chance to meet with the judges, my number was not called. I walked out of the room faced with flashing cameras and screaming voices feeling like a movie star despite my rejection. Other unsuccessful contestants put up their hands to invasive reporters and simply said “no comment,” continuing their long-practiced catwalks out back into the real world.

So after filling out a 72-question application, waking up with the sun, wearing a dress, heels and trekking through the cold, I will not be America’s Next Top Model. But after returning to a table full of great food for lunch, I realized that all was right in the world.