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Winter: I'm afraid the camera isn't aging well

Published January 27, 2007 at midnight

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Some people actually like having their photos taken.

You see them on the society pages - coiffed, cleavaged, bleached, plucked and exfoliated to within an inch of their lives.

But I bet they're in the minority.

Most people - and by that I mean women - are inordinately self-conscious about photos of themselves. Given a choice between a colonoscopy and a portrait session, they'd go for the former in a heartbeat.

I'm among them.

In my head, I'm a cross between Gwen Stefani and Uma Thurman. But for some reason, cameras never see me that way. Inexplicably, cameras give me a jaw like Jay Leno's and a nose like Dustin Hoffman's.

Recently, as part of the Rocky's slick new redesign, column writers got new photos taken. Mug shots, as we call them, are important for a lot of reasons:

• Studies have shown that adding a mug shot to a story can dramatically increase readership.

• Readers want to see what you look like; it's human nature to want to see the face behind the opinion.

• At their best, mug shots are friendly and inviting. They are to printed words what picture windows are to homes.

• Photos are mother lodes of information. The soulful eyes, the crooked smile, the hair that says, "Topiary - it's not just for pyracantha bushes anymore" - these details paint a picture worth a thousand words, and you can quote me on that.

I have some experience with mug shots. One pattern I've noticed is that the ones taken in my 20s and 30s and even my 40s are all better-looking than ones I've taken recently.

Go figure.

Other than that, there are no patterns. I've tarted myself up with lipstick and eyeliner only to find I look better on film with a rake in my hand, uncombed hair and not a single petroleum product on my face.

I've also concluded there isn't a particular angle that's better than another. A photographer once told me that Goldie Hawn always sets her chin about five degrees lower than normal when she's in front of a camera.

I tried it and it really flattered my jowls.

Another photographer once instructed me to "smile with my eyes." His intentions were good, but my pictures looked like the Mona Lisa with stomach acid.

Hair is a whole separate can of worms.

On a good day, I'm hair-challenged. On the day I'm getting my photo taken, you can bet that sassy little rise I work hard to coax out from the crown of my head will lie flatter than a laminated kitchen counter.

I look at the new mug shots in our paper and wonder whether other writers grapple with the same issues.

I'm impressed with how good Gary Massaro looks in his jaunty chapeau. I like Jennifer Rosen cradling a wine glass and Mike Rudeen sporting his wicked grin.

Do they suffer the insecurities I do?

Today, I'm not looking forward to waking up and seeing my new mug shot in this space. I did see my new mug two weeks ago - in fact, I chose it from among three choices offered to me - but the memory is blurry.

Our photos were taken during the December blizzards, which conspired with the holidays to make my life more chaotic than normal.

I recall getting up the morning of my shoot, looking in the mirror and deciding that my front teeth had gotten shorter and my face longer and that I needed bangs.

I pulled out the scissors and did the deed, but it was no silver bullet. I knew the camera would still fail to capture my inner Uma.

But at some point, you just have to turn it over and trust the universe. You accept the fact that some people are photogenic and others aren't. You develop the things you're good at and leave the glamour shots to the coiffed, the cleavaged and the bleached.

If you're lucky, you figure this out at 20, not 50, when the only person who wants your photo is the colonoscopy technician.