Smug Shots
My passport expires soon, so I need to get new photos. Sure, it seems like the people who take photos for passports and driver’s licenses and work IDs all got their start at the local jail, but I have high hopes for this endeavor. At least, I figure, I have some choice in what I’ll look like.
So at lunch on Friday I go to the first one-hour photo shop near my office. They’ve got a fancy new digital camera that’s as big as the photographer’s face. And the photographer’s acting like he’s a stylist too. As I stand in front of the white screen practicing my smiles, he starts gesturing like he’s brushing hair from his face. I take the hint and start patting down the offending strays. I straighten my back and flash what I think is a not-big-enough-to-be-goofy, not-small-enough-to-be-too-come-hither smile.
“Oh, no miss,” he says sternly, “no teeth.”
“Excuse me?”
“No teeth. For passports, you can’t smile too big. You can’t show your teeth. It’s a rule.”
Well, that throws me off. I don’t remember reading that in the four-page-long instructions that came with the renewal form. I don’t remember being told that last time around — mind you, it was 10 years ago.
“Um, okay…” I say, frantically practicing the closed-mouth smile. I glance at my watch. I’ve really got to get back to work. I grin grimly and try to joke that it must be because you’re usually looking unhappy when you get off a long flight, so they want to make sure they can recognize you. He doesn’t laugh.
I look at the huge camera, my lips closed… and can’t figure out where I’m supposed to look. There’s something that looks like a flash, then something that may or may not be a lens, and something…
Click.
The guy lets me look at the shot on his LCD screen for all of two seconds, so I shrug and say OK. Two minutes later he hands me the pictures, and I walk out, a bit dazed.
Suffice it to say, I look horrible. Surly. Looking above eye level. Bad hair color to boot. But I’m too embarrassed, or maybe terrified, to go back and have a do-over. So I go back to work and stare at my hideous photos all afternoon, wondering if I am vain enough to go somewhere else to get a new photo — a second opionion, as it were.
Of course I do! And a third time, and a fourth… The last time, it’s at a tiny, no-frills photo shop (no one-hour here) near my apartment. It’s pouring rain, but I figure even when I’m drenched I can’t look as bad as I did before. And there’s no fancy digital camera — it’s a Polaroid: One take and that’s that.
The white backdrop is a piece of cardboard that’s attached to the wall and flipped out for the shots. I sit down on the bar chair and straighten my back. Here goes noth — Click.
No idea if my eyes are closed, if I had hair in my face. Five minutes later, the guy hands the pictures to me. I’m almost afraid to look. I squint… I wrinkle up my nose… I finally dare look. I stare. And… I guess I look okay. I do know that the instructions say no retouching, so I suppose calling Annie Leibovitz is out of the question.
As pathetic as my tour of photo development places was, it was well worth it. After all, I’m going to have to look at this photo for ten years! Unless, of course, I just can’t bear it anymore and feel compelled to pretend I lost my passport and do this all over again…
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July 18th, 2005 16:24
We are leading somewhat parallel lives as I was finally goaded into getting my passport renewed when John says he has a surprise birthday getaway planned — requiring a passport. Very exciting!
My guy gave me the option of having another digiphoto made, but I was pretty happy with the first photo. After all, it would be pretty hard to look worse that the one I’ve carried for the past decade with the inexplicable cowlick.
Maybe we can compare soon!