Page 63 - Hartridge 1934

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to have my senior pictures taken. I was in no mood to be trifled with, but that is exactly what happened to me when I got there. All my preconceived opinions of the procedure were absurdly less horrible than the actual torture. The little man who was
to take the pictures was unattractive and tactless. He started by telling me that he knew 1 was one of those people who love to have their pictures taken. During the ensuing half
hour I gave him plenty of cause to think differently. He then said he would take a profile of the right side of my head because he knew I liked that side best. I knew it too, and hated him for it. For the half-front view he said, "Look at the lady in the pic­ ture, now; isn’t she cute?” She was not cute a bit, but she had on a fascinating negligee.
Itwasboughtfortheoccasion,1know. WhenatlastIswungaroundforthefrontview
Igotashock. Ihadmyfirstlookatthemanoeuversofthelittleman. Theywerealmost unbelievable. He was poking his head under the camera’s black cloth, and pulling it out
a-^ain. Helookedlikeasmallandveryfrightenedostrich,whilehehadhisheadinside, and when he came out he looked like a skye terrier, because his long hair had become unglued and was hanging over his face. He seemed to realize that his appearance was a bit ludicrous, because when I looked too sober he said, "Look at me. Now look at the camera. There, that’s the expression I want!” No false modesty about that man. My
family can’t understand why all the front view proofs are so sour and cynical. I could
lell them.
The most awful thing about having your picture taken is the draping. I thought
he would never get through poking and pulling and pushing and fiddling. Then, when he was all through, something slipped, and there he was back again, poking and pulling and pushing and fiddling all over again. When the last picture was taken, he slung the
drape around my shoulders and said, "Now you look just like a nun. I fled to my
dressing room.
My trials are not over, though. My family have chosen the proof I like least of all,
and I shall be haunted for the rest of my days by that thing with the crooked eyes. Of one thing I am sure. It will never happen again.
E. B., ’34.
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