Sometimes a bad everything day will stick around for the rest of ones life.

Sometimes a bad everything day will stick around for the rest of ones life.  You know...disturbing complexion, a day when hair superabounds super abundantly, and then all that heredity stuff like lumpy nose, short changed chin, and a buck tooth hillbillyish smile; and...oh yippie yi yah...its the annual photo shoot day at school once again.

It's morally reprehensible that my humorously sardonic parents ever even once thought of putting one of those photos into a stamped envelope to proclaim to all the relatives that they were indeed parenting an anomaly from nature, a weed among the roses...but they did, and they did it again and again as each year came and went, and a new photo replaced the old.

I grew up plastered to walls, and if I could morph into one I did.  I tried to be the most invisible wallflower in existence.  Past twenty-one and working, a chat with the local Freddy Krueger dentist expounding on how he could improvise improve my smile, sent me panicking to a distant orthodontist for an old fashioned teeth straightening job.  A peep hole in my lips always reminds me that it once surrounded a rogue toothy gone rabid.

Life has granted me an insanely immense amount of high quality BAD hair days, hair inflating to massive proportions, every one of those hundred billion shafts of dead weight swelling with a frizzing frenzy, bloating beyond belief into a nightmare I get to share with all in my immediate space.  I've settled for a layered top to bottom frizzy almond shaped haircut as a lesser evil to the frizzy Christmas tree shaped haircut, drenching it in a no frizz concoction for a curly Stoogedo.

I still have the photos...eleven reminders that I started out soooo loved by the camera, and ended up so tortured by its unforgiving frankness, even though I had all the help one could possibly ask for from home cut hair bathed in globs of creme rinse and slathered through and through with dippity-do.  When all else failed, there was always the option of those cutesy braided pig tails.

The ONLY reason the senior photo escaped being a testament to my anomalies is because, underneath all that lovely hair, there must have been at least thirty-two bobby pins holding every inch of that frizzy mess in impeccable layers of beauty.

First impressions sometimes mean absolutely nothing at all, and sometimes they mean much more than one could possibly ever imagine.