The Perils of Not Being Photogenic
He had my identification papers, he had my thumb print and still, the man behind counter number 17 at the Pusat Bandar Damansara immigration office would not hand over my newly renewed passport. What did he want? A DNA cheek swab? Nevermind that I had spent the whole day waiting in line to get that damn thing renewed and another half a day trying to collect it; this man was either really intent on wasting my time much like your average bureaucrat or he was really thorough at his job, very unlike your average bureaucrat. He had the lazy leer of someone who took hour long coffee breaks from work to chat up girls at the bus stop. He leers at me, despite the fact that I was of legal age, but scrutinizes my passport photo with a deep, disapproving frown.
I asked him what the matter was. He shakes his head oh-so-slowly as if he wasn’t used to ever moving quite so much in his life. His mouth took half an hour to form a slight grin that one would think he would be 60 before he managed a proper smile and dead before he could say his own name. Around me, children shrieked and screamed and ran and bumped into me while their parents looked on with oh-aren’t-my-kids-cute expressions. For some reason, or because the Cosmic Order hates me for hating little children, there were tons of miniature humans at the immigration office that day that one would be forgiven for thinking it was a pediatrician’s clinic.
“Saya rasa, you patut buat passport baru…” Mr. Immigration said. He looked like he was having such a hard time getting the words out of his mouth that I almost wanted to give him a glass of water and say ‘there-there’ if I wasn’t already feeling like stabbing him with his own name tag.
Make a new passport?!!! I did make a new passport, you shit and you’re holding it in your hands! But of course, I did a little smile through gritted teeth and politely asked him why. Then I took a little nap and had a couple of grandchildren while waiting for him to reply.
Finally, he said, “Sebab gambar ni tak lawa la… Muka you macam tembam kat sini…” Fancy that, the immigration guy telling you to make a new passport because your face looked puffy in the photo. It’s a passport for god’s sake, not a Vogue cover shoot. What? I’m going to be denied access to a country because I’m not photogenic??
Well, maybe not a country but it might complicate the matter of getting into a club. A few months after the encounter with immigration clerk/ beauty pageant judge, I’m out on town in the Gold Coast, dolled up to my skanky best. It was my housemate’s, S.S.’ last night as my housemate (she was set to leave back home for the States the following morning) and my good friend K was also permanently moving back home to
“It’s me.”
“No… this is your mom or something.”
“What?! It’s me!” My mom can’t be 20 years old to have a daughter old enough to have boobs you dumb fuck.
“Do you have any other ID on you, love?”
“No, that’s it. And it’s me.”
“Really?!” He takes another look at the photo. “No…..”
“Well, I have my Malaysian Driver’s License if you want to take a look at that.”
“We don’t usually accept foreign driver’s license as a form of ID but show it to me, I’ll see what I can do.”
I dig in my wallet and hand it over to him.
Mr. Bouncer takes another look at my face before carefully studying my driver’s license. S.S., K & I anxiously await Mr. Bouncer’s verdict…..
And we the jury find the defendant………
Mr. Bouncer bursts out in laughter. “Jesus, this is a bad photo too!”
…not photogenic.
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