Coming to Terms with the Person I See in the Mirror
By Alisha Fernandez Miranda
There’s a game I like to play when I’m out-and-about called “Am I old enough to be your mother?” The rules are simple. I examine the woman serving me coffee or the man cutting my hair and determine if it’s chronologically possible for them to be my child. Increasingly, the answer is yes.
Now, I’m not one of those women who is embarrassed about her age. (The working title of my book, before it was re-christened My What If Year, was The 40-Year-Old Intern.) In my head I still feel 28, birthdays be damned. Saying I’m “in my 40s” feels like saying “sure, I’ll meet you at that 6:30 a.m. yoga class”—an amusing comment that is completely unmoored from reality.
But nothing forces you to reckon with your age in all its glaring, extra-chin-hair glory more than a photograph. Cameras, which supposedly never lie, are a curt reminder that no matter what I feel like on the inside, I am, in fact, nowhere near 28. No excess of filters can hide what Father Time hath wrought on my visage.
Normally I avoid this entire situation by engaging in what my mother-in-law has dubbed “quality control”: ruthlessly curating all photos taken of me so only the good ones remain. I’ve gotten pretty good at posing for selfies in just the right light, at the perfect angle, that masks even the suggestion of an extra chin.
Sadly, when it came time to take the professional author headshots for my book, I discovered that there were no sunglasses or creative angles to hide behind. I had to contend with facing myself, in high-definition, as I am right now. What would the lens have to show me?
At first, it wasn’t something I was ready to see, which is why I did my headshots twice. The first time was, more or less, an unqualified disaster.
In the slog of trying to find an agent and then get someone to fall in love with and agree to publish My What If Year, I began to follow/stalk many of my own favorite authors on Instagram. I found that several of the authors whose books I had particularly enjoyed had their headshots captured by the same photographer. She had a unique style—natural light, distinctive background—and a roster of clients who had seen their names on a variety of best-seller lists.
Oh, and I was possibly old enough to be her mother.
I promised myself—in a very Scarlett O’Hara moment, with God as my witness—that when I got a book deal, the first investment I was going to make in my big-time writing career was to have this woman take my photo.
Finally, the book deal materialized. The digital ink was hardly dry on my contract when I reached out to her. She lived on the other side of the U.K., so setting up a session required some labor: childcare, train tickets, finding a date that worked with both of our calendars, booking hair and makeup.
Although the travel and prep took two full days, the actual snapping of the photos was very quick (excluding the time spent agonizing over outfits and practicing my best faces in the mirror). The photographer was reassuring throughout (“gorgeous, these are bloody gorgeous,” she kept saying, shutter whirring away) and in 20 minutes we were done. She drove me back to the train station to begin my long journey home with a promise I’d get the images she had chosen, 8 in total, that weekend.
Forty-eight hours later, I was back home, the only remnant of my long sojourn and glamorous photoshoot were the fake eyelashes still stuck to my face like caterpillars. When the download link to the photos arrived, I burst into tears.
I looked exactly like my grandmother. Same age too.
Staring at the images, I asked, “Who was this woman staring back, wearing my clothes and way too much makeup?” She was unrecognizable, so different from the image I had of myself. Was this really what I looked like?
The pictures weren’t exactly ugly, per se. The distinctive background, which appeared trendy and bold with the Gen Z subjects perched in front of it, reminded me of the ubiquitous Olan Mills school photos of my youth. The poses she had recommended looked great when executed by women half my age, but felt stiff and rigid for me. She had me “serious, mouth closed” for a bunch of the snaps, which made my facial expression seem like I had just smelled something awful.
I hated them.
I shared the pictures with no one. I was too embarrassed. I had made a huge deal about getting these photos done and spent a fortune in the process. I told my husband I hadn’t received anything yet while flipping through them alone in bed or on the toilet where no one dared disturb me. I bored deep into my own eyes but I found no recognition there whatsoever.
I had to contend with facing myself, in high-definition, as I am right now. What would the lens have to show me?
Finally, I got up the guts to show him. Well, first I ensured we were in separate rooms so I couldn’t see his reaction. I sent them all via text, then waited. Three dots. Nothing. Three dots. Nothing. He was clearly considering his reply.
“What do you think?” he wrote.
“I mean, they’re not all winners, but some are cute, right?” I said, rehearsing the lie I had been feeding myself.
Another long pause and, finally, a response. “They look nothing like you.”
For the second time in a week I burst into tears, embarrassed again but this time it was tempered with relief. So this stranger wasn’t me. Hallelujah.
“I look so old,” I said.
“No it’s not that,” he replied. “They just don’t look like you. You need something that’s going to capture your personality. These look like they are from a Sears catalog.”
It took me 9 months and a huge amount of prodding from everyone I knew to get up the guts to take another set of professional photos. This time I had a hard deadline—my book, my actual book—would be out in six months and they needed images to go on the back cover and in the press materials. My attempts to send the Zibby Books team my baby photos, my high school cheerleading portrait, and GIFs of Cruella de Vil were all rejected. I had to suck it up and get a new set of photos.
The second experience was completely different. This amazing photographer, Sammy Tunis, came highly recommended by a friend of mine. I was not old enough to be her mother. This time, I couldn’t fret or primp to an equal degree. I was traveling, so I grabbed my cleanest outfit out of my suitcase, and sandwiched the session between two work meetings. I did my own makeup. My only admission was that I allowed myself a blow-dry.
I met Sammy outside my friend’s apartment and warmed up to her immediately. She posed me against a brick wall and started chatting. I told her about my previous headshot debacle and begged her for just one thing: to make me look two decades younger.
Just kidding. I asked her to please make me look like me. But, like, the cutest possible version of me.
When my new photos came back I was in love. With myself. Here she is.
It wasn’t because the photos made me look 28—not even close. I looked firmly 40. But I also looked genuinely happy. Sure, my smile lines and stray grays were on full display. But so was the joy I absorbed being in her presence, the freedom I felt to move and pose naturally, the confidence in putting my whole being in front of the camera, uninhibited.
She truly captured my essence.
My essence is no longer 20 years old. She’s old enough to be your mom. But she’s feeling a lot better about herself now, and trying her best to align it with the image in her head. And let’s be honest—she’s still looking pretty damn good.
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Alisha Fernandez Miranda is a Cuban-American, Scotland-based writer, ex-CEO and mom. Her memoir, My What If Year, will be released in February 2023.