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You arrive at the studio. You're nervous—your palms are sweaty, but no mom's spaghetti on your sweater already. You see me come out and yell, "How the heck are ya?!" And you question if you booked the right photographer. You fumble over the 9 million hangers of clothes you brought, but I take them from you and escort you inside like it's a dinner party.
You're in the studio now, wondering if you should've put actual pants on instead of opting for a suit jacket, Chubbies, and sneakers that are reminiscent of your dad's '90s New Balances. I tell you it doesn't matter even though I regret leaving that detail out and quietly scrap half the photos I had planned for you. Your favorite tunes are playing. We're chit-chatting. I ask you to pretend like you're drunk pretending to be sober as I flash a giant light in your face over and over again for 30 minutes.
You wonder how any of this translates into a usable photograph or if your coworkers will have any respect for you after this. But you don't speak up because your mother raised you better than that.
I show you your final photos and you look as polished as handsome Squidward.
You laugh, I laugh, and you wake up the next day and realize it wasn't a dream. It wasn't the headshot experience you expected, but it was more enjoyable than any other photo you've had taken before.