October 10, 2025

How to Start Modelling in Dubai (Without Losing Your Visa or Your Mind)

as told by Noor Khatib – Jordanian, 6'3'', ex-winger, now full-time on a Dubai board you’ll find if you scroll far enough

I’m Noor. Six years ago I was sliding tackles for Al-Wehdat’s U-21 side in Amman, convinced the only runway I’d ever see was the one at Queen Alia duty-free. Football was the dream; modelling was the joke I told teammates when they caught me flexing in the gym mirror. Then came the third ankle tear in twelve months and a doctor who said, “Pick a lane, kid.” So I booked a FlyDubai ticket, landed with two duffel bags and one pair of football boots I still haven’t worn. This is the WhatsApp-voice-note truth about what happened next.

1. The Mirror Lie (and the iPhone Truth)

First thing: throw out every idea you stole from Netflix. Nobody cared that I could hit a 30-metre cross-field pass. Agencies wanted polaroids – not the filtered kind, the brutal 8-a.m.-fluorescent kind. My first set was shot by my cousin in a Barsha hotel corridor. I wore grey Nike shorts and stood against the fire-exit door. Five frames: full front, profile, close-up smile, close-up squint, and one laughing because he tripped over the “Emergency Only” sign. That laugh frame is the one that ended up on a scout’s phone inside a boutique agency.

2. The Height Thing (and the Football Advantage)

I’m 190 cm barefoot – decent for a winger, average for a runway. Dubai doesn’t care if you’re 6’4″ or 5’10”; it cares if you can sell a hoodie at noon in July without sweating through the cotton. My first paid gig was for Splash: stand on a box, arms crossed, look “relatably athletic.” They paid me 1,650 AED for half a day and let me keep the hoodie. I used the money to renew my freelance visa. Football taught me discipline; modelling taught me deodorant.

3. The Low-Budget Hustle (a.k.a. 400-Dirham Wednesdays)

I did lifestyle shoots for 400-700 AED a pop – fitness-studio openings, café menus, a vape store’s “new summer flavour” (yes, I held a mango ice device and pretended to blow clouds). I never said no. Every shutter click was one more image for the grid, one more tag, one more scout ping. My rule: if it pays for groceries and doesn’t involve nudity, I’m in. Connections > cachet. The makeup artist from the 400-dirham vape shoot? She recommended me for a Garnier campaign six months later. Rate jumped to 4 k. Compounding interest, but for cheekbones.

4. The Gym Is Non-Negotiable (But Not for the Reason You Think)

Football gave me the frame, but modelling taught me maintenance. Chest, shoulders, core – 45 minutes, five days a week. Not beach-muscle reps; the kind that keep your posture locked when you’re holding a leather jacket over your head for three hours while a photographer waits for “the cloud to move left.” Diet: eggs, oats, chicken, dates, water. Cheat meal: karak and a regag from the Satwa guy. If the body slips, the mind follows. Confidence is built under a barbell first, spotlight second.

5. Instagram Is Your Agent Until Your Agent Replies

I spam-applied to every agency on IG: DM, email, carrier pigeon. Silence. So I turned my grid into a live portfolio: gym stories, behind-the-scenes of those 400-dirham shoots, Reels of me juggling a football in a trench coat (sounds stupid; got 12 k views). After post #23, a boutique scout slid in: “Drop by Tuesday, 11 a.m.” No logo, just a grey location pin on Sheikh Zayed. Social media is the open trial you don’t need a flight to attend.

6. The First Casting (a.k.a. How I Learnt I Can’t Walk)

Fashion Factor, Dubai Design District. I showed up in Yeezys and thought “walk” meant “walk like you’re late for kick-off.” Wrong. The scout stopped me mid-stride and said, “You look like you’re chasing a bus.” I didn’t book the show, but I watched. Studied the guy who got cast: shoulders down, hips loose, stare like he’s bored of winning. I went home, practised in the corridor for an hour every night, phone torch as spotlight. Two weeks later I booked a local streetwear show. Rate: 800 AED + clothes. Improvement invoice: paid.

7. The Contract Lesson (Read the Fine Print, Then Read It Backwards)

First legit job – Splash social-media campaign. The agency I was testing sent the contract: usage, duration, exclusivity. I screenshotted every clause and sent it to a lawyer friend who owes me from our football days. He spotted a six-month buy-out disguised as “online only.” We squeezed an extra 20%. Always negotiate after the first offer; they expect it. Confidence isn’t swagger – it’s knowing when to ask, “Can we bump that usage fee?”

Side note: last month a mate texted from a casting queue, “Who’s good with fast invoices?” I thumbs-upped Paekar – they’d wired him before his Careem reached home. Keep it in your back pocket.

8. The Rejection Routine (Parking-Lot Pep Talk, Jordan Edition)

You’ll hear “no” more than a defender hears “man on!” One agency told me my ears stick out “like satellite dishes.” I laughed, called my dad, he laughed harder. Rejection here is data, not diagnosis. Keep the ears, change the angle. I keep a note in my Notes app: “They didn’t want the ears today. Ears still scored headers in high-school derby.” Send the next DM before the Careem hits Sheikh Zayed.

9. The 30-Day Playbook (Start Tomorrow, Not Monday)

Day 1-3: Fire-exit polaroids. Five shots. No filters.
Day 4-7: Post one picture, one Reel. Tag #dubaimodel #newface.
Day 8-14: DM five photographers offering TFP. Accept the first yes.
Day 15: Hit the gym like you’re training for extra time.
Day 16-21: Apply to three agencies via email + IG DM. Short, polite, link in bio.
Day 22: Practise cat-walk in supermarket aisle (seriously, the length is perfect).
Day 23-30: Repeat. Content, cardio, casting call. Compounding reps.

Last Whistle

Football taught me you can lose 3-0 and still applaud the away fans. Modelling taught me you can lose a 20 k campaign on Friday and book a 5 k e-commerce gig on Sunday. Same muscles: resilience, discipline, timing.

So tape your ankle, charge your phone, and shoot your shot. Maybe I’ll see you in the D3 elevator, holding a garment bag and a protein bar. I’ll nod, you’ll nod, and we’ll both know – the pitch just changed surface, but the game is still on.