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I recently had a photo shoot—which, by the way, is appropriately named, because I would rather be shot than go through another one. We were attempting to get all four of us Mortons looking photogenic (i.e., non-squinting, perfect-smiling, hair-smoothing, anti-smirking).
I’m sure that someone somewhere has determined the odds of all these variables lining up in the same photo shoot. I would guess it would be the same chance as a meteorite landing on my car on a given Tuesday, or someone mistaking me for a supermodel in a Gap store.
We decided that an outdoor picture would be best, since nature would provide additional beauty and thus reduce some of the pressure on the subjects. Friday turned out to be a beautiful sunny day. Great for fishing; bad for photos. No matter which way we turned, we were squinting against the sun’s rays. We did have a moment of respite when the sun eased behind the clouds. The photographer said, “OK, now. Quick! On the count of three. One…two…” On “three” a gust of wind came up and blew my perfectly lacquered hair straight up.
The photographer (who was also a friend) said, “Hold on a second. Your hair is doing a Donald Trump thing.”
Whatever shred of self-confidence I had prior to that comment evaporated along with the sun-covering clouds.
With the wind blowing and sun shining, he began to snap anyway. Surely, he could find at least one acceptable photo. If not, I have great confidence in his Photoshop touch-up abilities.
We received the first proof yesterday. The background looked great. Even our two girls had modelesque poses and good hair. My husband, who sometimes struggles with a relaxed-looking smile, came across as quite handsome. My Donald Trump hair was laying down and my eyes were open. That should count for something.
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