Can You Make Me Look Like a Unicorn?
I knew when I wrote my perimenopausal humor book Why Did I Walk into This Room? Finding the Humor When Perimenopause is Kicking Your Ass that I’d need a new author headshot for the back cover. Sure, I could’ve reused the one from my last book—and trust me, I was tempted, because I look cute as a button in that 20‑year‑old photo. But it felt wrong to write a book about aging, vulnerability, and authenticity… then slap a mid‑30s, smooth‑skinned, bright‑eyed ver
sion of myself on the back.
So I hired a p
hotographer who lived on a farm, which I thought was fabulous. If I accidentally stepped in a cow pie during the shoot, it would really drive home the shitty nature of perimenopause. Turns out there were no cows—just horses and ba
rn cats, which honestly felt like a win.
I requested a
sunset shoot, hoping the gentle, golden light would be kind to my face. In my mind, the photographer was going to be middle‑aged like me. In reality, she was 25 with porcelain skin and collagen for days.
“Sooooo… you’re gonna touch up these photos and make me look pretty before you send them to me, right?” I asked.
She giggled. “Oh, you’re beautiful!”
Sweet. Lovely. Not an answer.
She snapped
photos of me sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, standing by a fence, and walking down a gravel path. Surely, I’d look decent in at least one of those, I thought.
Two weeks later, the album hit my inbox. I opened it, took one look, and let out a groan followed by a whimper.
Shit, I thought. I look so old!
I clicked through again and once more muttered, “Shit,” under my breath.
Well, there was my answer: no touch‑ups. Not one. This was me—wrinkles, texture, sunspots, and all. (No warts, though. Small victories.)
I couldn’t help thinking how unfair it is that when I order my kids’ yearbooks, there’s always a box I can check to have their photos retouched. What the hell? No fresh‑faced first grader needs retouching. Even teens with acne should keep their real faces so they can remember what they actually looked like in middle school and high school. Then again, teens today use filters that turn them into puppies and unicorns, so maybe reality is already optional.
Really, this was on me. I told the photographer I wanted a “headshot,” and she took that literally—zooming in so close I could practically count my own pores. I should’ve asked for a silhouette from 50 feet away. Or better yet, a back‑of‑the‑head shot. I look much younger from behind.
After the shoot, I visited the horses. My husband snapped a picture of me giving one of them kisses, and for a moment I considered using that as my author photo. The horse’s face was far more photogenic than my wrinkly road map of a mug.
After twenty minutes of wallowing (sometimes you need a scheduled wallow sesh), I snapped out of it. I looked at the photos again and realized: this is exactly what a 50‑something woman looks like. Which makes these the perfect photos for a perimenopause book. If I appeared filtered and flawless, how could readers trust me? It would be like those asshats on dating apps who use their college photos even though three decades, forty pounds, and a colony of gray hairs have happened since.
Besides, wrinkles come from laughter. Judging by mine, I’ve spent a lot of my life laughing. And while my face smooths out considerably when I stop smiling, I don’t want an author photo that looks like Victoria Beckham, queen of resting bitch face. I’ll take wrinkles over that surly expression any day.
In the end, I chose the shot of me sitting on the ground surrounded by those fluffy weed thingies (there’s a real name for them, but my perimenopausal brain fog refuses to cough it up). That’s the one you’ll see on the book. Let me know what you think.
Has perimenopause commandeered your body and brain, wiped out your energy and enthusiasm, wrecked your sleep and sex drive, and left you feeling like a shell of your former self? Are you confused, stuck, isolated, unseen, misunderstood, exhausted, and ticked off? If so, Why Did I Walk into This Room? Finding the Humor When Perimenopause is Kicking Your Ass is for you.
This relatable read offers insights on finding relief from perimenopausal symptoms while delivering plenty of laughs—all with the reminder that you are not alone in this hormonal circus. You’ll laugh out loud as you read these essays, nodding along and muttering, “Same, sister,” and “Yes, exactly.”
If you’re looking for hope, humor, and healing as you navigate perimenopause, Why Did I Walk into This Room? is just what the functional medicine doctor ordered.