By the ripe old age of four I had concluded that I was the ugly duckling in the family, so woefully lacking in good looks nobody had dared to risk their camera to take a baby picture of me.
Either that, or they wanted to spare me the pain of comparing my baby picture to those of my brother and sister. It was evident they had black curls and big brown eyes, while my hair was plain brown and my eyes just ordinary blue, certainly not nice enough to warrant a picture.
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When I was five, however, my parents must have sensed the error of their omission and announced that they were going to have my picture taken by a photographer in the neighbouring town. A little late for a baby picture, I mused, but could it be that my looks were actually improving with age?
The evening before the big event I sat at the kitchen table while Mom rolled my thick, waist-length hair into rag curls. I felt more like a scarecrow than ever as I shuffled off to bed, but in the morning, what a transformation. My hair was a mass of ringlets. Admiring myself in my new blue dress, I couldn’t help feeling just a little bit pretty. Shirley Temple, eat your heart out.
Not wanting to disturb one frill or one curl, I gingerly walked to the car and stationed myself in the back seat. I was Cinderella going to the ball in her carriage. I imagined my wicked stepsisters cackling with envy.
It wasn’t only my imagination, nor was it wicked stepsisters I was hearing, but our flock of chickens. An awful racket had arisen in the hen house, and instead of coming to get behind the wheel of the car, Dad grabbed his gun and headed toward the barnyard.
I heard the shot.
Still ensconced in the back seat of the car, I could see Mom coming toward me.
“Dad just killed a mink in the hen house,” she explained. “We’ll have to wait until he skins it. He wants to take the pelt to that fur buyer who lives north of town. Nasty animals, those mink. This one killed two chickens.”
Pangs of regret shot through me. I considered the occupants of the hen house my friends and now two of them were dead. I must not cry, I must not. I’m … I’m Cinderella going to pose for a portrait. Yes, that’s it. I’m Cinderella and those two chickens were my wicked stepsisters.
I managed to maintain my composure, but an hour later I could feel my curls losing their bounce as we jiggled along the washboard road. We stopped for what seemed a long time while Dad and the fur buyer haggled over the price of the mink pelt. Dad finally returned to the car waving a five-dollar bill and grinning.
Well, it will at least pay for my picture.
As our destination came into view, I preened myself one last time and took a long, slow breath as we pulled up in front of the photographer’s studio.
Scribbled on the front door was a sign.
“What does it say?” I asked.
Mom sighed. “It says ‘closed until further notice.’ ”
“I guess he knew we were coming,” I said sadly.
“No, no, it’s not like that at all. It’s just … it’s just…” Mom was at a loss as she struggled to explain bankruptcy to a five-year-old. But I knew what it was. The photographer just couldn’t make enough money taking pictures of plain people like me.
I had dared to hope that I could be forever captured on film as a pretty little girl, but now those hopes were dissolving in a torrent of hot tears and a runny nose. A few weeks after that disappointing trip, I lost my two front teeth, my long hair was cut, and the flounces of my blue dress hung limp from too many launderings.
And perhaps it is just as well. A picture of me in ringlets and frills may have served to emphasize within me only the shallow values of life. A few years later, and a few years wiser, I was so thankful to learn from the Good Book that “man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.”
