At the recent  Air NZ Fashion Week I entered my name in a draw for a makeover and photo session with Photographers Inc.  Now please don't ask me why I did this - because to be honest with you, I don't know.  I'm not really that confident when it comes to fashion and make up - and I absolutely loathe having my picture taken.  Suffice to say I'm not really sure why I entered other than it seemed wrong to say no to the girl pressing the pen in my hand.  Besides, I was highly unlikely to win...ahem.

For the above mentioned reasons I  would normally  mutter something like "well it's just not my thing" and decline the prize.    But this time for some reason - heaven only knows what - I accepted it.  I was even quite excited about the prospect. Right up until I walked up the stairs to the photographer's studio.  And that is when I remembered what I was doing.  I was completely engulfed in panic - I hate photos and I do not like how I look.  It's not that I look like Elm Street's Freddy Kruger - I don't.  I am, to paraphrase Bruce Springsteen's Thunder Road, no beauty but I'm alright. I suppose.  The problem isn't really my face anyway.  

I am  - how shall I put this delicately - oh to hell with delicate: I am well endowed.  As in can't buy a bra off the rack, well endowed.  As in Double Letters that come well after E.  I started wearing a bra at the age of 9 and I left the letter E behind somewhere around age 14. For most of my life my breasts have been the centre of attention - for all the wrong reasons.   Because while my partner appreciates my body and loves me for me, a lot of people think it's okay to make comments they would not dream of making to another woman.  Even well meaning people think for some reason they are acceptable dinner conversation.  Word to the wise - that well endowed woman smiling and nodding when you reassure her that well at least it's better than not having any is wondering what you would say if she started discussing your bra size over the entree next time.   Yes I can carry off low cut gowns - but when was the last time you wore one of those to the office? I can never find clothes to fit - to get blouses to button up, they are huge everywhere else and could we not mention swim suits?  Or night gowns.  I get sore shoulders and a sore back.   Go without a bra?  Women glare at me and men gawk.   Breast feeding my children was a debacle.  Breast feeding in public was impossible - there is no way someone built the way I am can do it discreetly.  I know because I tried - and was asked to leave.  Not to mention the very real risk of suffocation.  Funny right?  In an "oh gosh I shouldn't laugh but..." kind of way - hey even I can laugh about it.  Sort of. 

Which brings us to photos.  It doesn't matter what I wear, how I stand - all that ever seems to jump out of the picture is my breasts. I have lost count of the number of times I have heard "well if you crop it  - just here..." or "lovely photo of your face...." Regardless of what I do, I am always just all boob and nothing else.  And that is precisely what I remembered as I put my foot on the top stair of the staircase at Photographers Inc. 

I was a bit early so sat and watched the client before me have her make up done.  This was a fatal choice - the more I watched, the more panicky I got.  I sent a text to my partner telling him I was thinking of leaving and not going through with it.  His reply amounted to suggesting, nicely,  I might be a wimp.  I wanted to cry. 

Now a funny thing happens when I get panicky - I stop talking.  Anybody who knows me will tell you this is not a natural state for me and should be accompanied by a neon sign flashing "DANGER".  By the time I sat down for the make up lady I was reduced to monosyllabic replies.  The poor woman tried everything.  "Have you had a good day?" "Yes." "What did you do?" "Work."

Silence.  She tried again by asking me what kind of makeup I wore.  Answer: none.  Every time she spoke I froze a bit more.  In one last valiant attempt she asked me if my heritage was Celtic.  Probably because I was wearing my Celtic Goddess earrings.  When I said no she asked what my heritage was and I replied "kiwi."  

The worst part about the whole thing was that I knew I was being rude.  I didn't want to be but I just couldn't stop.  I was struggling to not cry and it was taking all my energy to not just race out the door - even with my face half made up.  For a while she gave up.  Then she asked if I had children and like most mothers I answered automatically with their names and ages.  At last she had something she could work with and set about doing so.  Little by little I started to relax.  I admitted I wanted to run  and why.  She kept telling me I didn't have to stay but that it would be fine. 

I was almost completely at ease when the photographer arrived and I tensed up again.  It would be fair to say I have been more relaxed in a gynaecologist's office. In stirrups.  We went through to where the photos would be taken and I rather nervously handed over my selection of clothes.  I had taken a red evening gown I use for black tie events I attend for work, a black skirt, several wraps and my one sexy top.  It's a high necked cotton jersey top with no back. Well that's not quite true - it does have a back: a long silver chain runs from the collar to the waist at the back.  My 17 year old son took one look at it and declared "mothers should not wear clothes like that."

Because I don't have much of a wardrobe I had taken some accessories - my favourite Sprinsteen book and my chanting beads.  The photographer dismissed the latter but flicked through the former telling me he liked Springsteen too.  He then grabbed my long grey chiffon scarf, draped it around my shoulders and pronounced me ready. 

He was very nice.  Each time he wanted me to change my outfit he would talk about Springsteen.  It wasn't until the third change that I realised that, intentionally or instinctively, he had figured out how to stop me tensing up in between shots.  Each time he took a set of shots he included a shawl or a scarf - either draped around my shoulders or held to my face.

Then he stopped to show me some of the photos.

I didn't know what to say.   Who on earth was the woman on the screen?  I didn't know who she was - and I don't want to sound vain -  but she was lovely.  For one awful moment I thought I was going to cry again.  Then I noticed something.  In nearly all the photos - you could not see my breasts.  In each photo a strategically placed scarf or wrap was drawing the eye away from them.  What stood out was my eyes.  I can't believe I got to 42 without knowing I had eyes like that. 

I have to go back on the 3rd to look at the photos and I'm trying to figure out how to earn the money to be able to afford them - because sadly they are way out of my price range.  I really want those photos - because  for the first time in my life, I don't feel like folding my arms, putting my head down and just trying to slip through unnoticed.  I don't want to hide.  I'm still self conscious but I feel more confident than I have in a very very long time.  In fact it was driving home from that photo session that I realised I knew what I wanted to do next in my life and that this website was the first step. 

Most of us don't have a very balanced image of ourselves - we focus on the things we don't like or that could use improvement.  Few of us see the good things the way the rest of the world does.  The sad thing for most women is this  - if they did see those good things they would see they outshine the not so good.  I don't know if I will ever be really comfortable with having my photo taken but I know I can - and should make the effort to - look good and oddly enough just knowing that has made a difference to my confidence.   I really reccommend all women have one of these sessions - it is worth every second and every cent.  I don't know  if Photographers Inc understand what they gave me that day -but it doesn't matter: I do.  

www.photographersinc.co.nz

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