Picture Perfect
Two weeks ago, I spent my Saturday getting headshots. I felt glamourous, professional, and most importantly, beautiful.
Until I got my photos back.
How I felt at the studio
It’s not that the pictures are bad. I spent days crafting a lookbook on Pinterest that the team emulated beautifully. A handful are better than I could have expected.
I have a hard time seeing the woman in the rest of the photos as me. She’s slightly airbrushed, expertly posed, and desperately projecting a sexy-yet-approachable demeanour.
I find them unsettling to look at.
Over the last few days, I’ve tried to pinpoint my aversion. I’ve subjected my husband to incessant conversations over which photos looked the most like how he sees me if he thinks they’re pretty if he thinks I’m pretty.
Despite his encouragement, I can’t bring myself to see anything more than a girl playing dress-up. My face doesn’t belong atop these power stances. When, in a work setting, have I ever smouldered?
The initial glamour has disintegrated into embarrassment, and I think the adrenaline of the photoshoot soured my judgement when selecting images. I’m ashamed for spending time and money only to feel like a phoney.
I should have stuck with selfies.
Perfectionism legend
Who Is That Girl I See?
Seeing yourself through someone else’s lens isn’t easy. We are hyperaware of our imperfections, insecurities, and how we want to look.
A photographer isn’t.
That self-criticism is heightened by the sheer amount of time we spend staring at our faces. Zoom calls have been warping my sense of self since the pandemic started. I scrutinize any image of me and deem it either worthy for Instagram or hide it in the depths of my camera roll.
All the while, social media is telling us how to look, eat, and parent. My newsfeed is a tiny collection of art galleries, each acquaintance more impressive than the last. We scroll through perfectly curated lives and filters until we’re convinced that we are the only ones with outtakes.
My un-posted photo graveyard is a stark reminder that I am actually normal-looking. I can’t accept that the world is looking at a different version of me than I see in the mirror. One tagged photo can shatter my sense of self. That inverted camera filter humbled all of us for weeks.
Depressingly, everyone thinks they’re hotter than they are. It’s called self-enhancement bias, and it will ruin your day. In a study, participants were asked to choose which photo of themselves was “real.” Decoy images that had been edited to be more or less attractive were placed alongside the original. Participants consistently chose the most attractive image as being the “real” photograph.
Strangers, however, picked out the original photo.
The proclivity to see ourselves as more attractive doesn’t mean we have higher self-esteem. In my experience, it sets us up for harsher reality checks.
Before social media, I believed that I was the hottest girl alive. Other kids just didn’t get it. In middle school, I thought I was rocking my pixie cut only to find out I was ironically voted “best hair.” I convinced myself that my looks were simply intimidating.
Now I ride a rollercoaster of confidence that’s largely informed by external validation. Some days I’m caught off guard by how much I love the way I look.
Other days I get under 100 likes on a post and want to die in a hole.
Overexposed
Perfectionism is on the rise, specifically around our social interactions. More than ever, we feel the need to be perceived as perfect. One look at social media, and it’s clear why. Every night out there’s a group photo proving your self-enhancement bias wrong. In between the sleek “candids” that your ex-boyfriend’s sister’s friend is posting, there are ads telling you how to clear up your skin or snatch your waste.
I’ve been a perfectionist my whole life. Gymnastics taught me to aim for perfect tens, and school rewarded my adherence to rubrics. I tied my value to output, and this whole pandemic has been a masterclass on using projects to cope with hard feelings. I’ve long struggled to be vulnerable with friends, clinging to the façade that I’m fine. Better than fine. Thriving, even.
In getting my headshots, I fixated on doing it “right.” I spent hours scrolling Pinterest to find the best examples. I agonized over outfit choices and colour palettes. In the end, I brought a lookbook of models to the shoot.
No wonder it was disappointing to see my face staring back….
When it came to selecting images, my fear of getting them wrong led me to consider every possible media need. I picked a certain amount of landscape vs portrait, smiling vs serious, full-body vs shoulders up. I tried to choose a diverse package and ended up with a mismatch that is oddly cute, sultry, and professional at the same time.
I left amazing photos behind thinking that I was being practical.
The resulting hodgepodge is a classic case of perfectionism gone awry. I overthought myself into something I didn’t want in the first place. Somehow, I chose a photo of me strutting toward a studio light like a daytime television ad. At the time, it felt like a unique add-on to my album.
Looking back, I feel like a moron.
When a high achiever fails, they think there was something wrong with their approach. When a perfectionist fails, they think there’s something wrong with them. I see those few bad pictures and am wracked with embarrassment. The judgements come hard and fast: only an idiot would choose those photos, the photographer must think you have no taste, what a waste of your money, where are you even going to use these, and on, and on, and on.
I might not have picked the best photos, but the day was still fun. I invested in my brand and allowed myself to fantasize about needing photos for book releases, speaking events, and panel engagements. I played the part of a successful writer, and it felt good in the moment.
When I look at the photos, I’m trying to see that playful experience instead of the mistakes.
I’m seeking humility over humiliation.
My brain at all times
Burning Out for you Baby
I took a break from freaking out over my photos to scroll through social media. In the news, I saw a vacation home in North Carolina taken out to sea. It sat on stilts that gave way to the rising ocean. The house settled into the waves and drifted away in less than a minute.
I watched with parts horror, and part jealousy. What I wouldn’t give to be swept away from my frail post.
That’s when I realized I might not be thinking clearly
Over the last five months, I’ve struggled to stay standing through layoffs storms, new jobs, world news, and unexpected success. Each gust is chipping away at the stilts beneath me, and there’s time to rest when I’m barely holding myself upright. I need somewhere else to put my weight.
Imperfect headshots were enough to tip me right into the ocean.
I’ve fallen into the ”all or nothing” trap of perfectionism: if I don’t look hot in this picture, I must be hideous all the time. If I made one mistake, I’m a failure. If I have to take a break, I’m weak.
After finishing the first draft of this article, I looked back at the photos. Most of them are, genuinely, good. I wrote a glowing review of the studio and will use the majority of my package for years to come. After my reaction to seeing my book for the first time, you’d think I’d pick up on the pattern: I immediately hate everything I create.
It’s exhausting critiquing myself as often as I do. The tasks I think I should do, the unrelenting standards, the empty feeling of thinking that I’m not doing enough… it’s a constant cacophony of nasty thoughts.
I’m slowly realizing that I’m an unreliable narrator.
The same weekend that I got my headshots taken, my new driver’s license came in the mail. When I went to renew, I didn’t know I needed a new photo. I scrambled, pinching my cheeks to add colour, digging lip gloss out from the bottom of the bag, and retying my hair. The photo turned out great. Probably, because I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t let myself set perfectionist standards.
Whenever someone points out that I’m hard on myself, I’m reminded of an Ariana Grande song:
I wanna love me
The way that you love me
Ooh, for all of my pretty
And all of my ugly too
I'd love to see me from your point of view
Perfection is not attainable. Kindness is.
Every day is a new opportunity to treat myself with grace. Every photo is a chance to see myself through someone else’s lens. Every awkward headshot is a step toward believing my own success. Every perfectionist freakout is a prompt to take a break.
PS: Champagne Room members, you can go see my headshots in your VIP private room.
