I’m one of those people whose looks don’t change very much. When I was asked to submit a grade school photo for a contest at work, I politely declined and told them mine would be the photo everybody would know right away. Except for the muscle mass lost in the face and relocated to the midsection, I look like I did before (and after) my age had a one in front of it.
Makes it a bit tough because, when people say, “You look good,” I’m not always sure if it’s a good thing. Maybe folks thought I looked like death warmed over back then and now, or worse now. One thing about being human is our everlasting sense of paranoia about how we appear to others. We do ourselves a disservice this way, but we’re determined not to break old habits.
Today I had been working up a sweat and had run several fast errands before going to the beauty salon to pick up my mother. I ran into a classmate there, who apparently recognized me right away. Her new hairstyle made her look fabulous, which immediately reminded me that I had managed to go from well-assembled to a flat-out mess running errands in the heat all morning, and oh gosh what will she tell people when she gets home?
Well, at least she can honestly say I haven’t changed a bit.
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