Blue Hair, Don't Care
Confessions of a Katy Perry impersonator in Hollywood
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Katy Perry?"
I heard that nonstop when I moved to Los Angeles in 2012.
People thought it was a compliment. I took it as an insult.
How dare strangers compare me to a striking, chart-topping pop star? Couldn’t they see I was a star in my own right? Didn’t they know I could play the xylophone?
Sure Katy was thriving— selling out acoustic shows at the Hotel Cafe and making headlines entangling with industry bad boys, but I thought, if only the right person discovered me, I could become the person I moved LA to be.
Someone much more than a knockoff Katy Perry with a B-cup.
I had just driven cross-country from Buffalo to Los Angeles to start a new life. Every day, I drove my black Hyundai Sonata from one dingy audition room to the next, from Burbank to Culver City, praying I'd land a co-star role on some ABC sitcom, or at the least—a teeth-whitening commercial.
It didn’t matter how many overpriced acting classes I took or how many theatrical headshots I printed at Kinkos—every audition ended the same way:
"Thank you, we’ll be in touch... by the way, has anyone ever told you you look like Katy Perry?"
I was sick of hearing this. I decided to take action.
I googled celebrity impersonator agents and found a guy based in the valley—renowned as the best impersonator agent in the business. I emailed him a few blurry selfies straight off my phone, and an hour later, he called and signed me.
It was the fastest "yes" I ever got in Hollywood.
I officially had an agent- one who would keep me busy for the next decade.
Katy Perry was in demand in 2013. Fresh off her divorce from Russell Brand, she released Prism, and Los Angeles treated her like a wounded angel—her soft-lit, brokenhearted billboards looming over Sunset Boulevard. The same overpriced ad space that’s now covered in Skims ads.
As much as I wanted to escape her, I couldn’t. Not in this town. Everywhere I looked, there she was.
My life went from memorizing short film scripts to learning every word to California Girls and all the cheeky choreography to match. Katy was never much of a dancer. Her eight counts were a piece of cake, frostier than the fabric cupcakes I sewed onto my new metallic corset. Once I invested in her famous blue wig, the bookings flooded in.
Second graders begged their parents to book me for their birthday parties. They didn’t want Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. They wanted Katy. She was the desired it-girl who all the Beverly Hills elementary schoolers looked up to. As their parents started cutting the cake, the DJ would cut the music for a surprise announcement:
“GIVE IT UP FOR….KATY PERRY, YA’LL!!! The kids would go wild.
Cue B-cup Katy.
I’d twirl out of my Sonata and prance down this affluent family’s driveway in my turquoise tutu, reminding all the kids watching to ignite the light, and let it shine, just own the night like the forth of July. For one hour, I made sure everyone felt like a firework.
Finally the day came when I booked a job that wanted Emilie-not Katy. I landed a role as a back-up dancer for a music video that would play at the VMAs. When I got to set, I learned choreography on the hot studio-lot pavement. The instructor placed me in the front row and then at the last minute, the director said “move her to the back.”
In walked Katy Perry herself in full metallic regalia. Of course, she was the pop-star we were prepping for. I should have known. It’s never about me even when it’s about me. It’s always about Katy. She stood on the sidelines surrounded by her trendy crew of makeup artists. She didn’t look up from her phone until the dance instructor cued her to take her place front and center. There I was again, hidden in her shadow.
Weeks later, I got a call to be her official stand in for a commercial she was shooting for the Prism tour. For hours, I stood still on stage drowning in flood lights while directors yelled at me to stop fidgeting so much. They complained that I was two inches shorter than the really Katy.
“Sorry I’m only 5’6.”
They gave me a wooden box to stand on.
Six hours without a phone, alone with my own spiraling thoughts, I decided that I was going to try to befriend my doppelgänger when I saw her, and end the imaginary feud in my head. I stood there thinking about what I would say to her when we finally met face to face.
Tick. Tock. Times up.
Will the real Katy Perry please stand up?
The director called Katy Perry (the real one) onto set and moments later, she emerged from stage right, strutting towards me to take my place (well, technically HER place).
When the moment finally came that we made eye contact I conjured up the confidence to say….. “Hi.”
She smirked-ish.
I said, “Uh... Twinsies!?”
She gave me a weird look.
I walked away even more annoyed at Katy Perry.
Maybe she didn’t hear me? Maybe she didn’t see the resemblance?
Maybe she could tell the director to fire me and free me from this weird life defining my West Coast existence.
But she didn’t. She didn’t think twice about me.
So I kept going. I kept roaring.
Soon, I was booking gigs alongside bigger stars dead and alive—Lady Gaga, Elvis, Bono—at casinos, circuses, and nightclubs.
The coolest gig?
Getting hired with ten other impersonators to dance freaky behind the DJ Svdden Death, who wanted his set to look like a full-blown Illuminati ritual.
Tom Cruise and Whoopi Goldberg killed it.
The problem was, I wasn’t as convincing as the others. Elvis had the white sequin suit, the deep voice, the hound-dog swagger. Their acts sold themselves. Katy wasn’t easy to mimic. Her personality wasn’t as obviously defined like the others. Marilyn Monroe or Michael Jackson had unmistakable features. Katy needed a whole stage show to sell the act. I didn’t have a left shark to lean on. Just a ratty wig that kept sliding off. Cheap bobby pins ruining the illusion I was trying to sell. I decided to switch to her signature pony tail, but the $10 CVS hair extension wasn’t really giving Katy. It was giving Ariana Grande from Wish.
Then the news broke that Katy Perry started dating John Mayer and that’s when I finally said enough is enough. CAN I HAVE ANYTHING IN THIS TOWN?!
John Mayer was MY longtime crush. Like every other white girl in America, I felt his music spoke directly to me. I couldn't tell you how many Friday nights in Buffalo I’d end by watching his Free Fallin’ cover on YouTube convinced he was my one true soulmate.
I loved how he bragged about himself on talk shows.
I loved how he defined a quarter-life crisis.
I loved how he casually inserted big words into conversation.
He was the first person I heard use the word “juxtaposition—” the word that defined his music. He sang love songs even though he really desired freedom. Which is why I was certain him and Katy were not a match.
The top comment on their “Who You Love” duet on YouTube is “that chemistry between Katy Perry and John Mayer is amazing.” Hard disagree user Siddarth32498 and the 900 people who liked it.
Of course, I was right. They didn’t last. Phew. That might have been the end of me.
One night in WeHo, three shots deep at Laurel Hardware with my girlfriends, I looked up — and there he was.
It wasn’t Katy haunting me this time.
It was John Mayer, in the flesh, sitting at a corner table with some friends.
I did what any other delusional drunk girl from Buffalo would do. I walked up to him and interrupted the obviously unimportant conversation he was having.
I crouched down, nearly blacked-out, deepened my voice and said,
“Do you think I look like your ex-girlfriend?”
“Katy?” he said.
John Mayer saw the resemblance?!
But his “uhhhh okay….can you leave us alone now” look made me realize this romance was over before it begun.
I decided to ask for a photo. Before he could answer, his friend cut me off:
“We are NOT taking photos tonight.”
OMG.
It was Danny Tanner himself—the late, great Bob Saget—giving me a look of pure disgust. The same look he gave Stephanie Tanner when she crashed Joey's prized 1963 Rambler through the kitchen wall.
When Danny Tanner says, “no,” you listen. So I obeyed and sprinted to the bathroom.
My friends said I fumbled the bag.
I said it wasn’t my fault!
I got cockblocked by Bob Saget.
I don’t know when or how, but one day, I woke up and was no longer jealous of Katy Perry. I was no longer in love with John Mayer. Then when the Co-Star astrology app launched, I was really over him. The app analyzed our synastry and told me there’s literally no person on this planet I’m less compatible with than John Mayer. Yes, I manually entered his birthday like a loser.
I guess you could say I grew up. I found my own voice and my own path. Lip-syncing Teenage Dream became just a small piece in my story, not the full plot.
Now sometimes for fun, I just put my costume on for fun and spin around in the streets to the sounds of sirens— like a true maniac.
Thank you, Taylor Swift
These days, my agent isn’t getting as many requests for Katy Perry as he used to. I was scheduled to perform as Katy in Phoenix at an arena this month, but got a call that the event was cancelled because they couldn’t sell enough tickets.
The last party I was booked for was almost as embarrassing as the time Katy herself ignored my “twinsie?” joke.
I started lip-syncing Katy’s greatest hits — and the kids just stared. If “Who invited her?” energy could be bottled, this was it. The parents clapped along to Roar like it was still 2013. But the kids? They had moved on.
One brave kindergartener finally said what everyone else was thinking:
"Can you take off your wig and sing Taylor Swift instead?"
I ripped off my blue wig so fast and happily took requests- as myself.
We sang “Shake it Off.” “Blank Space.” Even a little Miley Cyrus for good measure. The kids were finally having fun.
That’s when it sunk in:
Katy Perry wasn’t the moment anymore.
Thanks to Taylor Swift, I was finally set free.
Astronaut Katy
Now that I’ve escaped Katy Perry. The world can’t escape her.
All it took was one billionaire with a small rocket and big pockets to launch Katy Perry back into our orbit.
She went to space (allegedly) — and came back down like a dark horse, and is now annoying the world with her newfound gratitude- which apparently means kissing the dirty ground. #mothernature?
"Are you ready for it? Ready for it?" she used to sing.
Nobody was ready for Blue Origin Katy to fall out of the sky — the one who thinks an 11-minute girls trip to the edge of space makes her NASA certified.
She thinks she’s an astronaut. I thought I had a chance with John Mayer.
Maybe the real resemblance between us was our parallel delusions.
Jeff Bezos has ruined many things. We can now add Katy Perry to the list.
Thanks to Jeff Bezos, Lauren Sánchez, and a team of desperate handlers fighting for her relevancy in pop culture, Perry’s image is glitching in real-time—fed to us through strange new clips of her on tour “dancing.”
Now that the world can’t stand Katy, I think I kind of like her.
The public, who apparently never paid close attention, is suddenly shocked:
"What happened to Katy Perry?”
"Is it Ayahuasca? Ozempic? MK Ultra?"
We may never know the real answer. But one thing’s certain: Katy’s finally interesting.
At last, after two decades, her personality is enough to be mimicked.
No Left Shark. No cupcake bra.
Just raw, delulu Katy has become a meme all her own.
Social media is flooded with comedic parodies.
All you need are manic eyes, botched bangs, and a sad little white daisy.
Ramble off a few nonsensical monologues about metaphysics- and bam, you’re a professional, baby!
Everyone’s a Katy Perry impersonator now.
I can finally retire.
(Just kidding. My agent might have a gig for me in June. Fingers crossed, they request astronaut Katy. Ironically, she seems more down to earth)
Loved this piece Emilie! Got some good laughs and glad you told your story on how you came to be the fun Katy!
You are a great writer!! And yes you definitely looked like her. But you definitely are more interesting and should continue sharing your thoughts and investigative work. Astronaut Katy (the real one) needs to go back home… that was just, well dumb!