Picture day: A teen’s worst nightmare. The way you’ll be remembered for life depending on just a matter of seconds. It could be that giant zit that immortalizes you as the human pizza, or that one stray hair, or your white T-shirt on the white backdrop; or that piece of broccoli stuck in between your braces. As you can see, I can go on and on.
This year, none of that was going to happen. This year it would be different. This year, it would be perfect.
I went into the bathroom, the radio on loud so I could get in my daily shower singing. I turned the shower on, nice and hot (or so I thought) and jumped right under, not waiting for it to warm up- It’ll wake me up. That it did. I sure was woken up. I screamed at the coldness and grabbed for a towel, only to slip on a bar of soap and fall back into the ice-cold, plugged up shower (my dad had just re-done the shower and hadn’t put anti-slip adhesives on the bottom yet). And here it gets worse- The hot water never came on, so I was forced to shiver my way downstairs in nothing but a towel to huddle in the bath tub (there’s only one shower in my house, and I think we’ve developed that it does not have warm water).
So anyway, I finished showering and went back up stairs to do my hair. I brushed, I combed, I dried. Then I sprayed- A whole lot of hair spray- not the aerosol can type, but the kind that comes in the spray bottle with the pink cap. I sprayed until my hair was perfect- my normal straight, long hair.
This year, I had picked out a brown shirt, simple but elegant – exactly the way I sought to be remembered. I rolled on half a stick of deodorant before pulling it over my head – No sweat stains in my picture. I examined myself in the mirror. After weeks of looking for the perfect top at every store in town, I had finally found it. Oh, you want one? Where did I get it? In my own closet. That’s right folks: I made my mom drive me around town only to return home weary from shopping and find the perfect top in the second drawer down of my own dresser.
No make-up for me. It looks bad, I can’t apply it right, and it gives you acne. I just don’t like it. I believe in natural beauty, and I’m aware you’ll say that’s a whole load of crap, but hey, that’s your opinion.
I looked in the mirror. A beautiful girl looked back. With my dark blond hair brushed out of my face and no dirt visible, I actually didn’t look so bad. I hadn’t brushed my hair in several days, so it was a good change. It looked perfect. I looked perfect. And I felt perfect too.
I practiced my smile, gapped teeth flashing white at me. Sometimes I hate my gap, but it’s not very wide, and actually looks kinda cute if I smile right.
I was ready. I rode my bike to school that day, to my dismay. As soon as I got there, I rushed into the girls’ bathroom, brush and comb at the ready. The hairspray held, thankfully, so I ran the brush through my hair and went on to pictures.
At my school they do pictures before school starts so you can get your ID badge (used for buying lunch, checking out books, logging onto computers, etc.). So basically it’s a giant line you wait in, growing nervous by the second. I waited in that line. I was real nice and patient and polite and all those virtues people are always grilling you on. If waiting in line were an Olympic sport, I’d have many-a-medal to show for it.
So you’d think that by being a good sport, not being demanding, not being myself, would ensure by some greater force that I deserved a good picture.
Not at all.
). Keep it up!
Ok. Now to the good part.
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