Picture Perfect

I stand in front of my over burdened bookcase and pull paperback after paperback off the shelf. I turn to the inside back covers and look at the authors' pictures. Ken Follett grins at me playfully. John Grisham gazes at me with the easy smile of a neighbor. I notice that the women who write romance novels are photographed through a filter, their faces are luminous in soft focus. My publisher has demanded a head shot. In an hour I will be sitting in a photographer's studio trying to look scholarly but not boring, interesting but not unusual, attractive but not come hither. I want to look like a blend between Follett, Grisham, and Steele. I want a playful knowingness in my soft focused smile.

I practice my look in the mirror. Too big a smile and my eyes squint shut leaving me with crows feet...perhaps even chicken's feet! Too small a smile and I appear constipated. I lift my chin. I square my shoulders. I try to gaze into the distance looking wise and inscrutible. I realize I look myopic instead. I tilt my head slightly to the left. Then to the right. I ponder what to do with my hair. I rub gel between my palms and try to tame it. I decide to let it do whatever it wants to do. The idea that I have control over my mass of curls is delusional.

I rummage through my closet looking for something to wear. I pull on my black cashmere sweater with the ballet neckline. I decide it makes me look like I'm sitting for a school graduation portrait. The only thing missing is the string of fake pearls. I slip into the green silk jacket lined in gold that I picked up in San Francisco's Chinatown. It's lovely, but too formal. I throw on a butter yellow V-necked tshirt with 3/4 sleeves. Too casual. I warn myself to stay away from flesh toned turtlenecks. I wore one for my passport picture and it made me look like I had a giant goiter. Customs officials around the world would stamp my passport and hand it back to me with a sympathetic look on their faces. Even the French official felt sorry for me. No, I must avoid turtlenecks.

One top after another gets tossed aside until I settle on a satin copper shell covered by my moss green suede jacket. I pull on a pair of brown dress slacks and slide into my favorite pair of embroidered Chinese shoes. Simple. Elegant. Smart. I smile at the shoes. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing, these little slipper shoes make me feel put together. Not that it matters what you wear on your feet for a head shot. Still, it's nice to know my toes are happy.

Now on to the make up. I hastily throw on eye color, powder, and blush. The clock is ticking and I can't find my lipstick. Oh, I can find plenty of "Devilicious Red" and "Tropical Sun Kissed Coral." Those long forgotten shades still clutter my vanity. But the "Nicer than Normal" shade is missing. I finally find it at the bottom of my briefcase. I hurry out the door and decide my lipstick can wait until I get to the studio.

I have two minutes to spare before my appointment. I pull into a remote parking spot and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. That's when I realize that I have put mascara on only one eye. Dread overcomes me. I am about to have my picture taken and this picture will be on the back of zillions of books sold on Amazon. (Perhaps not quite zillions. Perhaps only "a whole bunch!") I think of a number of places that are better than where I am now. The dentist. In front of a three way mirror trying on bathing suits. Divorce court. I drag myself into the studio.

The photographer is the kind of guy who belonged to the AV Club and School Newspaper staff in highschool. You know the kind. Pudgy, introverted, task oriented. He asks me what sort of shot my publisher wants. I am honest with him and tell him that I don't know. I was instructed to obtain a "digital headshot."

The photographer has me climb up onto a tall stool. He snaps a picture and I see him scowl and discard it. He snaps another. He discards another. He seems unhappy with any of the pictures he is taking. I assure him that if the results aren't what he expects, that it isn't his fault. First, there's the whole mascara problem. Second, cameras and I have always had an uneasy relationship. I look better moving. I am not a static person. I move through the world rather than sit and have the world move past me. "If only my publisher had asked for a video version of a headshot," I tell him, "I'd be golden then." The photographer tells me that I actually take a good picture. He wasn't happy with the lighting, he explains, as he tilts the big foil lined umbrellas closer to me.

Several more pictures are snapped and I sigh as he changes his lens. He looks up and asks me what is wrong. I tell him that I wish there was a way to get my shoes in my headshot, but short of wrapping my legs around my shoulders like a contortionist, this isn't possible. A few more pics and we are through. "Your proofs will be ready in an hour," he says. "There are a few with nice smiles. There's one I think you will really like."

I waste an hour shopping. Every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection I notice that I have mascara on only one eye. I dread going back to pick up the proofs. I think about leaving them in the studio and sending my publisher the picture off of my university ID. It's institutional but servicable. Reluctantly I make my way back to the photographer. He smiles at me from behind the counter as he hands me an envelop containing a CD and proofs. I flip it open. And there they are! My shoes! I look up surprized and grin. "I thought you'd like that one," he tells me. "I do!" I tell him as I hold up the picture of me perched on the stool. "I'm going to send it to my publisher. If all he wants to use is my head, fine." The photographer explains that the publisher's art department can crop the picture to just a headshot. I nod.

"Cool shoes" he tells me as I hand over my American Express Card.

"Thanks," I reply. "By the way, have you ever thought of using that as a pick up line?"