HiZoo Facebook ad: “we wouldn't even have a picture of you”

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1492780492748657

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My daughter texted, "If something happened to you, we wouldn't even have a picture of you." I checked. The newest photo of me is on my driver's license. It was a Sunday night, 9:47. I wrote back, "that's not true." She wrote back, "name one." I couldn't. And the license picture was taken at the county treasurer's office at 8:15 in the morning. It's the worst picture of me in the state of Kansas. I'm 56. I've been a land surveyor in Emporia for 31 years. I'm out the door by 6:15 most mornings, in a hard hat and an orange vest. I've walked the property lines on about half the farms in Lyon County. Nobody takes pictures of a surveyor. People slow down when they see my tripod. They think it's a speed camera. That suited me. My face in the morning is a full size bigger than my face at supper. My eyes go narrow, and everything below my cheekbones goes soft. By about 1 in the afternoon, it's back to normal. Hallie is 27. She's getting married in October. The wedding is at 10 in the morning, because that's when the church in Council Grove was free. At her engagement party in April, I carried trays all night. That way I was in the kitchen whenever the photographer came through. Then she started on the slideshow for the rehearsal dinner. She wanted pictures of the two of us. She found plenty of me from before 2010. After that she found my thumb over the lens, and the back of my vest. She even called my sister in Salina to ask for one. Nothing. That's when she sent the text. I sat at the kitchen table with my phone for an hour after. The truth is, I'd made sure of it. At every family thing for 15 years, I'd been the one with the camera. Her fiancé's mother had already asked me to be in the getting-ready pictures, 8 a.m. on the wedding day. I'd told her, "We'll see." I had tried to fix my mornings a few times over the years. I just never told anybody. Cucumber eye pads from Dillons, $7. They were cold, and that was all they were. A $49 face massager with a little roller, from a TV ad. It lives in my glove box with the tire gauge. I quit salting my tomatoes, which in August is a real loss. Last spring it rained a week straight, which is about the only thing that gets me in to see my doctor. I finally told him about my mornings. He checked my thyroid, and it was fine. "You're 56 and you work outside in the wind," he said. "That's just your face now." He didn't even write it down. So I stayed behind the camera, where I'd always been. After "name one," Hallie got busy. She booked me a facial at a spa in Topeka, two weeks out. Her treat. I'd never had a facial in my life. I wore my work boots in. The esthetician was named Abby. Maybe 35, with forearms like she'd grown up baling hay. She had me lie back. Then she started on my neck and stayed there a long time before she touched my face. I asked her if she'd lost track of where my face was. She thought that was funny. "Your face drains through your neck," she said. "If I start up top, I'm just pushing it around." She said about a third of my lymph nodes are in my head and neck. Around 300 of them. Extra fluid in the face heads through them, she said, on its way out just above the collarbone. "Lymph has nothing pumping it. Your heart only does that for blood. Lymph mostly moves when you move." "Eight hours of lying flat, and it collects in your cheeks and eyes. You're biggest first thing and back to yourself by lunch." "Lymph therapists go to the neck first. So do I." I lay there and thought about the first thing they teach you in surveying. Water needs fall. A lot that's dead flat holds water. So every subdivision I've ever drawn has a strip along the back where the water is supposed to leave. You can't build on it. All night, every night, my face was a flat lot. And the strip where the water leaves was my neck. I've marked where the water leaves on a thousand pieces of other people's land. Mine was right under my chin the whole time. My doctor hadn't said a word about it. Neither had the man in the TV ad. Lying there, part of me figured my daughter had paid a nice woman to make me feel better. Then Abby said, "Topeka's an hour from you. You can't drive up here every morning at 5." Her regulars, she said, keep a heated neck pillow at home called Hizoo. You just lie back on it for ten minutes, on the gentle setting. It does the back and sides of your neck. None of it touches your face. It shuts off by itself after ten minutes, which I liked. I can fall asleep on a tailgate. It was $199. I've paid more than that for one good pair of boots. At 5:30 I'm on it in bed, before the truck. The first week, my face didn't budge. My neck did quit aching from bending over the tripod, so I stuck with it. Week two, the 7:30 selfie I'd started taking in the truck looked like my supper face. Week three, a farm wife near Americus asked to take my picture with her husband by the new corner pin. It was for their family history book. I said yes. Week four was Hallie's bachelorette weekend in Kansas City. I decided one weekend wouldn't matter and didn't pack it. At brunch, her maid of honor took one of me and Hallie together. My face was a full size bigger again. I sent it to Hallie anyway and wrote, "this is why." By week five, I'd taken the face massager out of my glove box. The tire gauge has it to itself now. It didn't change my heavy brow. That's bone, and it came from my mother. And I still look 56. That's fine. I am 56. But most mornings now, my face at 7 is close to my face at supper. Tuan has been my crew partner for 22 years. He has never once noticed a haircut. In September, on a job site at 7 a.m., he looked at me over the tailgate. "You get new glasses?" I don't wear glasses. I said no. He said, "Well, something," and went back to his stakes. Coming from Tuan, that's practically a speech. Hallie got married October 12 at 10 in the morning. I was in the getting-ready pictures at 8. The photographer sent us 40 from that hour. I'm in 31 of them. After the ceremony, her new mother-in-law pulled me into the middle of the family picture. I let her. That night Hallie texted me one of us with her veil on. Under it she wrote, "ok. now we have one." If you're the one with the camera at every family thing... If the newest picture of you is the one on your license... If a doctor told you that's just your face now... Your face drains through your neck. Thirty-one years of drawing drainage, and I had to hear it from an esthetician in Topeka. They have a 30-Day Mirror Test. Take a photo every morning for 30 days. If you don't see it, send it back for a refund, minus $15 return shipping. Here's the link: https://hizoo.co/pages/untagged

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hizoo.co

"we wouldn't even have a picture of you"

A lymph therapist on why the photos you untag yourself from were mostly taken in the morning, and the ten-minute neck routine she sends clients home with.