In light of the fact that my new novel is almost finished which means I have to shop myself to a new agent, I was forced to own up that I needed a new picture of myself, given that the last time a professional portrait was taken, I was still menstruating. Like every woman my age, I've become quite camera-shy, although in truth I was never crazy about having my picture taken. Even when I was young and sexy and could go bra-less, it was difficult for me. These days even looking in the mirror is tricky, unless I'm armed with a tweezer and hunting for stray hairs.
A friend who is a professional photographer put the screws to me. She offered to quickly take my picture. I should say here that over the past few years, quite a few professional photographers, some of them even acclaimed beings, have been interested in me. They say my face is "interesting." Interesting is not pretty. A lot of times it means cock-eyed. When I say a woman has an interesting face, it's not usually a compliment.
But I digress.
The photographer emailed about a date to take the pic. Knowing I couldn't put it off any longer, I made a plan. Included in this plan was a session with a professional make up artist since I wanted all the help I could get. The make up artist is another friend. I love her even though she's always trying to get me to wear blush when above all other makeup I hold in contempt, what I dislike the most is blush. I don't even like the word blush and I'm certainly not the blushing type. The type I am is aging kitten with a whip, which is why the lone prop I had to have for the shoot was my riding crop.
While I was at the make up studio, one of my enemies was there. This is a woman I try to avoid at all costs, but there she was, having her brows dealt with. Her presence didn't seriously throw me for a loop, although it made me realize that if we stayed in the make up studio, I would be on strange display. I had hoped that the photographer and I might have a nice mosey along a woodsy road outside. If I couldn't be with my horse, at least I could do a little tree hugging. Instead, as it turned out, the photographer loved the light in the make up shop and immediately started pulling out golden foil refractors and other professional equipment. Before I knew it, I mugging for the camera and feeling quite the idiot.
"Say chardonnay," the photographer advised in an aborted attempt to get me to hold my mouth correctly. "You've got a furrow," she said about my forehead, which was unsurprising. Between worrying about how not to squint or show too much tooth or what was happening with my hair, I'm surprised we were able to get any pictures at all, not to mention the attention our photo shoot was attracting.
There was a constant stream of females coming in to get their make up. In my neck of the woods, Saturday in the fall is high bar and bar mitzvah season. An annoyed teenager awaiting her turn in the make up chair said to no one in particular, "Why is there a model here?" I was pathetically grateful she didn't say "old model."
Somehow we got through it. The pictures are great. Now if somebody would just put make up on me more often, I wouldn't mind having my picture taken.
