The Case Against Photoshop

I heard from JB in Incheon that school photos in Korea are often touched up. I saw the proof with my own eyes as JB pointed to the photo of a doll on her wall and tried to convince me it was, in fact, her. I peered at the wallet-sized photo and did see traces of JB - the hair, the eyes, the necklace - but it didn't look like JB. Her face just wasn't so . . . plastic. Every wrinkle, every line of expression had been smoothed away until it became what JB would look like if she never smiled, laughed, cried, or breathed. I repressed my shudders and cheerfully reassured myself that my school preferred people in their natural skin.
As I sat in the teacher's room pouring over the sixth grader's graduation year book, I discovered that I was wrong.
I stared at the first page, featuring my principal and vice principal.
"Wow," I commented to CT. "These pictures are OLD."
CT looked over my shoulder and gave me a look. "No, they are not. They are new pictures. This year."
My stomach sank as my gaze fixed on the impossibly smooth-faced men in front of me. I turned the page and looked at row after row of rubber-faced teachers that I used to recognize.
"Oh, dear," I muttered and searched for my face.
Memories of the nice little man in the photography studio now haunted me. His cheerful smile and hearty laughter hid the intent to turn us all into little plastic versions of ourselves. I remembered sitting on that chair wondering why he needed a computer for 35mm prints.
Now it all made sense.
I flipped the page and gasped. "Ah! My freckles!"
CT jumped at my shout. "What?"
I jabbed my finger at the photo of my face. "My freckles are gone!"
"You don't have freckles," CT contradicted, staring at the photo.
I jabbed my finger into my cheek (ouch). "Yes, I do!"
CT laughed. "You do here." She pointed to my face. "But, not here." She dropped her finger to the photo.
"But . . . but . . . I like my freckles!" I protested. "And they're gone!"
CT looked at me and then at the photo and then back at me. "It's the same," she said.
"No, it's not!" I wailed.
And then HT (Head Teacher) walked over to see what the fuss was all about. I sat there in shock while CT and HT chatted and laughed in Korean. Then HT snatched the book, glared hard at the photo then glared at me and said something to CT.
"What?" I demanded, hearing my name in that sentence.
CT shrugged. "He says you look better."
"Thank you!" I said, feeling vindicated. "Real life is better, right?"
HT shook his head. He pointed to the book. "Pretty. Very pretty."
CT sort of half laughed and half coughed. "He thinks you look better in the photograph."