Red Herring

After I met with Robyn I carved out some time to take a stab at editing my headshots. Nola sent me the raw version of my photos the night before, and the more I sift through them the more I cringe. I carry my laptop from the office nook I created in a corner of my small studio apartment to a more comfortable spot on the couch. I immediately delete the worst of the worst and I have about six photos left to work with. I narrow it down to the least cheesy photo and focus on it. As I attempt to make miracles I think to myself it can't be that hard, people do this to their IG photos every day. After about thirty minutes of trial and error I get the tone and the exposure just right. I eliminate the shadow behind me. I keep going back and tweaking the contrast and brightness. I hate how red I am. One good thing that came out of this photo is my teeth look amazingly white thanks to the unforgiving flash of Nola's camera. I can also see every blemish on my forehead though and I can tell just how choppy my beard is. I trimmed it down so it looks like it's in the beginning stages again but it has potential. I decided to start growing a beard after I broke up with my Pisces in an attempt to reclaim my masculinity. In my opinion, they look like the same pork-chops my father's father had in the picture where he’s holding me at the train station as a baby... I refuse to cut them off. I send a copy of what I've done so far, one to my mom and one to Nola, and ask them what they think of the photo. Nola says she likes it. Before I can respond to her I get a text from Moms. She loves it. She always loves it when I wear a suit. Then she suggests I cut the patches off above my sideburns. I'm annoyed that she called my beard sideburns but as I look at the photograph for the fifth hundredth time, I can see exactly what she's talking about. Why didn’t I shave? What was I thinking? I clean my beard up with Lightroom and she’s right, it looks completely better.. Why couldn’t I see that looking at it on my own? I feel as if every mirror I’ve ever encountered has lied to me. Although my beard looks cleaner I decide to leave it unedited. I don’t wanna go around flashing an overly photoshopped photo and for some reason, I feel better about my picture knowing that the potential is there if you care to see it. I finish the photos and I send the one with the best smile to Harry Norman for marketing and what have you... After the cruel and unusual punishment of editing my own photos, I close Lightroom, light some Nag Champa and turn on Hulu to continue rewatching Insecure to distract my soul a bit...