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I knew the day would come but I didn’t think it
would be so soon. It hasn’t even been four years for Pete’s sake; heck, in some
papers Ann Landers looks about 35.
While I have been known to gripe about the
photo that accompanies this column (“raccoon-eyed” comes to mind), I have come
to accept, even appreciate it. Though it took a couple of years to sink in, one
of the niceties of writing a newspaper column is that you get to do a reverse
Dorian Gray thing: Your photo keeps a timeless public face while you yourself
stay out of sight and get old. It’s not a 401(k) plan, but not bad as perks go.
So the message that I needed to come to the
newspaper for a new sitting was a bit unsettling. Perhaps it’s because I seldom
visit anymore (maybe twice last year), but command appearances give me an eerie
sense of having been called to the principal’s office.
In any event I rarely put up a
fight with my editor given that she is a fair and eminently reasonable human
being. For example, it’s a safe bet the previous sentence will reach you
completely untouched. Still the fact remains that while I decide what to write,
she decides what to print and which photo to run. I suppose I’m the only one
who really cares; they could hang a picture of Krusty the Klown here and I doubt
most folks would notice. Still, I did take a shot at defending my old, young,
photo. Anyone who reads me, I pitched, knows I freely confess to getting old,
fat, gray, and bald. Why rub my nose in it?
If I were the editor I might have said “Because
I can,” but as noted, the boss is reasonable. It seems the paper is fine-tuning
its layout, including the look of the columns. Like it or not, I get a makeover
along with everyone else.
Having resigned myself to instantaneously aging
3 ½ years, I began to plan. For my original photo I made the mistake of
wisecracking with the photographer, who had no idea who I was or why he was
taking my picture. In hindsight I think the moment I stepped over the line was
when I asked him to airbrush in more hair.
“I’ll give you airbrush, pal,” I can hear him
thinking. “How ‘bout a little ‘Rocky Raccoon?’”
Then there are the matters of hair and glasses,
about all the primping one can do for a head-and-shoulders shot. My hair looks
grayer after a haircut, which would make sense if it stayed gray, but three
weeks out of the barber’s chair it looks brown again. I have no idea why this
is, despite my wife’s helpful query as to whether I shampoo between cuts. I
elected brown and shaggy over gray and trim.
I have worn glasses since I was 8, but at the
time of my first photo I had switched to contacts. I’m back to glasses, though
seriously considering laser surgery (watch this space.) To spare myself another
sitting I doffed the specs.
When I arrived at the office I was flattered to
find the talented Ty Barbour on the other side of the lens. He didn’t know who
I was either and probably just drew the short straw, but I had half expected to
get a handful of quarters and directions to the photo booth at the skating rink.
As this is written I have not seen the new
shot. I was very polite this time, so trust the airbrush will be wielded with
kindness if at all. I’m not even sure when it will start running as the paper
plans to make all the format adjustments at once.
It’s OK with me if they wait till
I’m Ann’s age, but if it turns out dopey don’t fault the photographer. He ain’t
da Vinci and I ain’t the Mona Lisa. Though if the word “ain’t” isn’t in the
preceding sentence, blame my editor.
© 1997- 2002 Brent Morrison
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