"My mum wants a photo of the two of us together," my husband informed me.
I took that statement to mean that he intended to set his camera up on his tripod, turn on the timer and snap away.
Photography is one of my husband's passions -- so of course, he married a woman who doesn't like to have her picture taken.
I wouldn't mind it so much if I liked the way the photos came out -- but they always end up depicting me as I actually look, which in reality isn't as good as it is in my mind -- and I don't like being reminded of that.
I'm especially reluctant to have my photo taken now, after I've gained so much weight... especially since the last time I saw my mother-in-law, she pointed it out to me (and I weigh more now than I did then).
So I decided to stall: "Can you wait a few days? I'm due for another haircut and would feel better if my hair looks good in the photo."
Unfortunately, my short haircut is a sore point with my husband. I know I wasn't crazy about it when I left the hairdresser... but so many people told me they liked it, I grew to like it, too.
The thing is, among the many physical changes I've experienced as I've grown older, hair loss has been the toughest one to handle (second only to the slowing metabolism that makes it that much harder to control my weight). When my husband and I met almost 23 years ago, I had a trim body and long, thick hair. And now...
...well, let's just say that the bangs I wear are hiding a growing expanse of skin at the top of my head. It's my version of a Donald Trump-style combover.
For years, the one instruction I've given any hairdresser is to do whatever possible to make it look like I've got hair where I don't. And the unfortunate thing is that the best way to do that is to keep it short.
But my husband hates it, and never misses an opportunity to tell me so -- and I just reminded him.
As for the photo: he's busy looking to see if he already has one he can send her -- you know, where I'm sporting longer hair.
I just hope he finds one where I weigh less, too.