I had long, long black hair up until the third grade. Every night my grandmother would painstakingly wash and brush the tangles out and lovingly put them in two braids down each side of my head. Every morning, she would comb it out and re-braid it into two long silky strands. Sometimes there were variations –like the Princess Leia look, or the one braid down the back, but for the most part, my childhood was spent with two braids which went with every outfit. I think I have only one photo of my hair down. I was holding a stuffed Yorkie puppy and wearing a white dress with blue stripes.

One day, my mom walked me across the street to the hair salon and I watched as the hairdresser in one fell swoop snip off my braids. She then rolled my hair in tight curlers and slathered pungent perm solution all over it. My mom explained to me that my grandma was getting older and her arthritis was getting to be too much for such a task as brushing my hair. My grandma died suddenly later that same year.

I vividly remember going to school the day after “The Perm.” The school had a “Hands Across America” celebration and all the students had to stand on the playground and join hands. Everyone remarked about my hair, as I tried to bury myself in self-conscious oblivion. I think it was then that I decided I hated to get my picture taken.

And to this day, I still hate having my picture taken.

Nevertheless, I needed new headshots and so my very talented friend, very beautiful and photogenic friend, Ruby Rideout of Dazzling Images, dragged me out to Balboa Park for the torture. I brought my 5-year-old, Mackenzie along, who not only is photogenic but wants to be a model (and an ice cream shop owner) when she grows up.