Almond Tea and the Corian Connection

Picture Day.  

 Frankly, it brings the same level of anxiety that I feel when I hear the words “Mammogram” or “phlebotomy”.  Frankly, the prep for any of the aforementioned is pretty similar in discomfort and anxiety in my house.    This year I had two students participating in this ritual and the process was anything but picture-perfect.

First of all, I have a very hard time knowing how the clothing is going to photograph with the slightly countertop-esque background selections.  In many cases I find myself wishing I had a slate-blue Corian surface to throw the clothes on to get an idea of how the clothes are going to look in the end product.  And we have gone from one, diner counter blue option, to six options on a theme, all of them looking like a food-service surface. 

Depending on the company you work with, there are backgrounds that are more “stylized”, such as falling leaves, autumnal burnt-orange maples in the background, or one year, a big yellow school bus.  (I did feel that this one would prompt more questions than compliments.  “Well, look at this new picture of my granddaughter.  She’s in first grade now.  Her Mama clearly hasn’t taught her not to play in the street, but it is nice that they got the accident scene photographed so professionally.”) 

And then there are the years when there were flashy “futuristic” lazer-like effects, or the weirdly disembodied floating head in side profile options.    The futuristic impact is lost on me as this was also an option during my junior high photos and that was a LONG time ago.  (Of course I went for it.  I wore my best dangly earrings with my boomerang perm and scarf, tied just so, in a manner that created a bib-like effect.  Looking back on it now, my only comfort is that I was not the only one.)

And hair.  Don’t even talk to me about the hair.  I am, not someone who knows the current trends, and my hair and makeup routine take a total of five minutes.  In the grand scheme of “pretty lady” continuum, I’m sort of fumbling through, trying to strike a midpoint somewhere between totally giving up and reaching beyond my grasp.

So when my oldest asked for a braid she had seen on a peer with the kind of glossy, golden, straight hair that Barbie dreams about at night, I felt a sickening plummet.  My daughter’s hair is baby fine, and wavy, and will never ever lie smooth and flat like silk.   It is easily more than a foot shorter than the friend in question.   In other words, “Chickie, this is a brush, not a magic wand!”   I did the best I could, but really, I plan on denying in the future that I was the one who put that braid in.  And if that doesn’t work, I plan on relying on “It’s what you asked me to do!”

As for Sister Middle, she went happily off to school in her brightly colored dress and tights I can only hope stay intact and clean long enough for picture day, with her fleece hood firmly over her carefully washed and dried hair.  The lotions and potions used to tame her fuzziness, cannot compete with the power of fleece, and so, I try to remember that she is at an age where all photos will be viewed in her later years as precious and the static-induced halo will look somewhat angelic by then.  I did have several conversations about sitting with one’s legs together while in a dress, but within the first half-hour this was a distant memory, and I can honestly name approximately forty people who can vouch that my child had on character-endorsed underwear under her tights this morning.  (Note however that there were underwear under her tights THIS morning.  Score one for Mama!)

And this year’s staff picture includes my purple hair.  Yes, purple.  Yes, on purpose.  Yes, it has been met with mixed review, ranging from “You look like a rockstar!” from Sister Big, to “…mid-life crisis?” from an adult male who shall remain in witness protection for some time to come.  But it is something I had to exorcise from my bucket list. 

You see, from the time that I was seven or eight, I longed for hair that matched Almond Tea’s immaculately groomed, violaceous bob.  I had the cut, just not the color.  And it was never an option as a minor, and then I was too self-conscious, or too economically disadvantaged, or too “What do you think?” about it for the next twenty-plus years.  It was time to try it out, see if it changed my life or made me “more” of something.  What I’ve discovered is that is does make me more noticed, and largely in a positive tone, but it didn’t really change who I am.  And realistically, I didn’t think it would, but sort of like donning a costume and taking on a role, for a few weeks into months, I feel a little more free to “not give a damn”.  Until picture day…

I had huge angst about the day when the picture would come back to us and amongst all of my smooth and polished colleagues, who came dressed as professionals, I came as an aging rockstar.  I felt every minute of my age that morning and although I was wearing a dress I loved, the process of getting to that dress was annoying at best.  Too sedate?  Too matronly?  Too 80’s tea party? This one?  That one?  Too short?  Too…I make myself crazy with this.  And ultimately, my purple hair didn’t change one thing about the group photo.  It was a repeat of school photos 1979 through present.  “Um, you?  In the back?  You’re really tall.  Can you go over there?”

And for the record Mr Photographer, let me tell you something about group photography that I think you should know.  Fifty people standing in a line facing the camera straight on?  Not flattering for at least fifty of us.  Asking the “tall one” in the dress to just “jump up on the stage and sit in a chair in the row behind the standing staff?  Um, if you want see if I have undies on, I could just tell you.  Not happening. 

I’m tall. 

My hair matches my favorite doll.

Deal with it.

The pictures should be fabulous.