Picture not-so-perfect. Her passport photo quest turned into one harrowing journey
In this highly controlled and filtered selfie world, there is nothing more rattling than procuring an official government ID photo.
Reality sure can smack one in the face, as I was just reminded. ID shots of friends and family are often a source of entertainment. They’re tiny thumbnails of comedy gold. But it’s not fun to be the one in the digital hot seat, especially if a disinterested stranger calls the shots.
When I noticed the old passport was up for renewal, I procrastinated until I couldn’t anymore. The combination of paperwork aversion and knowing my face would be documented with overhead fluorescent lighting caused the delay.
But one day I found the courage. I looked up commercial places that offered passport “photo sessions.” That’s in quotes because, aside from the speed of light, nothing is faster than this kind of photo shoot. It’s a humiliating whoosh, trapping one in eternity.
I learned folks could either go to a pharmacy or a shipping store for such a service. I chose the latter, thinking it would be better to have light reflected off of bubble wrap displays than Pepto Bismol end-caps.
Before I ventured, I quickly scanned U.S Department of State photo requirements. There was a list, but I only seemed to pick up a few mundane things, like “Do not wear glasses.” Fair enough.
The most disturbing rule was “Your face must have a neutral expression.” Here’s something deep I will confess now: I tend to smile hard in photos. Not out of exuberant joy, but just to hide my emerging jowls. A neutral face adds 10 years. Or it shows the truth. Whatever.
So I prepped with this “neutral” nightmare awareness. I styled my hair to avoid fly-aways. I put on subtle makeup to at least look alive. Subtlety takes time. One must apply lipstick that’s not too dramatic and skillfully add the right eyebrow enhancement. Look at my brows, not at my jowls.
As I approached the “glamour shots” shipping store, I had to fight a brisk parking lot wind. There went the hair. The customer line was long and slow. My fake alert eyebrows contorted within furrows. My glossy lips sank to a pout. When it was my turn to announce why I was there, it became immediately apparent my photographer, who was in reality a busy shipping clerk, was a paparazzi newbie.
His more experienced coworker was barking orders across the room while simultaneously weighing and stamping other customers’ packages.
“Pull down the white screen over there by the strapping tape. No smiling! She has to show her ears!”
Ears? I didn’t recall reading about that one, but I obliged and tucked back my wind-messed hair. I created an unintentional mullet effect. The dude snapped the camera and the job was done.
I dashed out of the busy store with my little photo. I sat in my car to study the would-be posterity.
How do I put this? That one image somehow captured the off-the-charts stress I have endured the last several years. It also pinpointed my age, something I have not fully accepted. Plus, the photo conveyed the immediate present, which was my soul screaming, “Do I really want to travel overseas any time soon? In a Boeing? With fellow passengers free-range coughing? Aren’t storms more violent lately? Is homogenized milk safe? Why did I buy this shade of lipstick?”
That clerk-photographer was an artistic genius. With a push of a button, he captured the true me.
However, this was not going to be my 10-year passport photo. No way. Nope. This was the worst picture of me ever. The worst. Ever. I checked the U.S. Department of State requirements again. My face was not supposed to have a shadow on one side, but there it was. Right away I dashed over to the same shipping store chain, but at a different locale, for a redo.
My new passport will display the second worst picture of me. Ever.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com
