This is part two in a three-part series that is so self-obsessed I’m wondering if it’s actually almost Meta? Maybe not. Anyway, part one can be found here. Part Two can be found here. My dignity can be found nowhere.
After I printed off my selfie (It’s probably to late to start calling it a headshot, but I sure wish I’d done that) I was still fretting about the photo I’d chosen for my exciting thing. The problem is, I was sure I knew how they’re going to use them – there was a whole load of us invited to multiple events, and they were going to lay out our pictures on a table and then move them around like they do in Britain’s Got Talent, and decide who they want to see again.
So my problem (aside from the fact that I have the capacity to overthink one tiny thing this much) was that I wasn’t happy with my face. I think I mentioned it was the one I posted on Facebook to show off my new haircut. Since it was quite drastic, the appropriate facial expression seemed to be one of modest, wide-eyed, almost innocence – as if to say ‘this really isn’t a big deal’. Because then it’s not too showy-off-y when you’re, you know, showing off. But in a ‘picking people out of a talent pool line-up’ context, it was going to look like a picture of an unsure person.
So, I spent Sunday afternoon occasionally taking photos again in the hopes of surprising myself into looking quietly confident, and definitely not like somebody who had already made three attempts to take one decent photo. Miraculously, it worked.
So, armed with new photo (also new Facebook picture because when you have one nice photograph of yourself you cling to it with all your might and they can pry it from your cold, dead fingers – whoever ‘they’ are.) I made a quick stop in the Boots closest to my work, which has five shiny photo machines, and very few idiots at not-even-8 am. Every single one was out of order.
So at lunch time I had to bus it (because it was raining and my new hair doesn’t enjoy that. Or rather, I don’t enjoy the new flicky bits it has started to form) over to
the seventh circle of hell Piccadilly Circus to try for the third time.
Finally, there was success. At least, once I’d navigated past the creepy man who was standing at a machine, not printing any photos, just looking at everybody else’s. I took my three copies of my own face with a slightly different expression to the counter. The nice till man could still see what I was buying, he just didn’t know there were three of them.
Even so, he looked down at the picture, and then looked back up at me.
“Is this you?” He asked.
“That’s me.” I told him, probably quite loudly because all of my blood had rushed to my face and was pounding somewhere in my ears. It’s a massive cliché, but I definitely wanted the floor to swallow me up.
“Wow.” Was all he said.
Which I am choosing to believe was ‘wow, you look nice, and I would totally accept you if I worked on the exciting thing you need this photo for’, and not ‘Wow. You’re kind of into yourself’.
In case you’re wondering, my answer to him was somewhere along the lines of ‘flurble’. I think I had selfie exhaustion.
And so ended The Selfie Saga. I had achieved a reasonable hard copy of a photo. When I went to my exciting thing this week I did, of course, hand that picture over (and offer them unnecessary copies just to show how prepared I was) with a nonchalance that totally belied all of the bloody palaver surrounding it. But I knew, And the internet will know, the inspirational and life-altering story behind it.
Does anybody know any children in need at all? I should probably become a role model to somebody ASAP.