You know when you go to a new hairdresser and you tell her exactly what you want and she cuts you hair how she wants to cut it anyway? You could have said ” I want a bubble, Liz Taylor circa 1958 and here is a picture of it.” A half hour later you walk out with a bad bob. There are several reasons that this could happen:
- a) This may be the only cut she knows how to execute correctly.
- b) You are paying her so that makes her the expert.
- c) She did this on purpose because you remind her of her nasty Aunt Mildred.
- d) She believes that you epitomize the sexiest woman on the planet and will rock a bad bob.
This is similar to what happened when I hired an artist to design my book jacket. I’d seen her portfolio. I was impressed with her work and she was a sexy older woman, herself. I thought she’d be perfect for the job.
I was explicit in describing that I wanted a drawing of a sexy older woman. I used the word sexy about a hundred times with cleavage. I chose a strong pink, asked for lots of black for strong eyecatching contrast with a splash of yellow.
The first proof looked like me in a yellow polo shirt and a fishing hat. I used the word sexy about a hundred more times and again reminded her that cleavage was a “must have”.
As my deadline approached I decided that I had to sit with this woman and explain what the word sexy meant. I drove to her home where she informed me that all the changes I insisted upon had driven her price to over double and that I was still paying her by the hour!
She had actually digitized a drawing of my Facebook picture, the same picture that I use as my avatar on this blog. The only difference is that she added my glasses. My hat (the only hat that ever looked good on me) and my glasses, the exact shape and color of my new prescription glasses! There are several reasons why this could happen:
- a) My face is the only one that she can draw correctly.
- b) I am paying her and that makes her the expert.
- c) She hates me because I remind her of her mean Aunt Mildred.
- d) She believes that I epitomize the sexiest woman on the planet and she is the artist, no?
As I drove home with a copy on my dashboard reflecting on my windshield I was sick with anger. She had stolen my picture, digitized it and charged me for the time she spent on drawing fishing hats and polo shirts. Pressed by my deadline I’d felt that I had no choice. Now I had to completely change my look, my image, buy newer glasses and find another hat. It would have better represented my book if I had simply snapped a picture of the light switch on my wall, a toggle switch.
Or I could choose d) and believe that this artist considered me to be the sexiest older woman on the planet.
I chose d).
And, at least I got the cleavage.