Shortlisted 2024 WestWord Flash Prize
It’s a big decision, choosing your face. No matter what anyone says, people judge you on that first impression. Unlike your flesh and blood face, though, your online profile is fully customizable.
I’d never focused on my appearance. My mom, who was also probably my closest friend, always steered me toward higher aims. A successful marriage and family, a great social life with friends, or a fulfilling career. In fact, my main goal at the moment was a promotion so I could buy a house near my mom.
Unlike the past, when people chose a picture and bio for each different site, The Attic promises to be our master profile. One face for work, play, and love. A digital face to participate in family skypes and work zoom meetings, lip movements to match your words. Your digital body animated by AI to broadcast a dance routine or showcase a new pair of jeans.
You must choose a human face; that’s the only rule. Not a Pokemon or a rubix cube. In an era of photoshop, filters, and ubiquitous plastic surgery, they said it only made sense to allow people to craft their persona, brand themselves how they saw fit. If you feared racial discrimination, you knew what to do. If you felt more like a Marie than a Mario, go for it.
As a critical mass of people signed up for the Attic, I created my profile with a natural-ish look. Me, but with a little Facetuning to soften 40 years of wrinkles and sun worship. With hope in my heart, I connected my Attic profile to my dating apps, work profile, everything. However, my confidence took a hit as I rarely had matches for dates, while my friends with more ‘curated’ profile personas saw a revolving door of suitors. It didn’t seem to matter that they didn’t live up to the impossible standards set by their online selves; their dates didn’t either. It seemed, though, you needed to bend reality to even get in the conversation.
And at work, our many global branches meant I never saw many of my coworkers’ actual faces. I couldn’t help but notice that the more youthful, more refined looking your persona, the more likely you were to get a promotion or public-facing role.
Reluctantly, I enlisted services in the newly created field of digital portraiture. A week later, I received my new face (and body). I have to admit, I was blown away.
It was me, but better in every way. My hair was thicker and shinier. My mouth curved into a gloriously contagious and very white smile. My abs were so defined, it evoked envious and hunger on sight.
They even crafted the perfect bio, optimized for keywords, sentiments, and attraction for all my digital interactions. For example, my hobby of walking in the woods was improved to mountain climbing. Quilting with my mom became sewing stylish clothes with friends. They even changed my name from Doreen Gray to Dori Gray. Less grandma and more great, apparently.
As soon as I uploaded it, everyone loved my new look. Even my boss. I found myself leading team meetings and requests for advice more often. I felt a bloom of hope.
Truth be told, I found myself enamored with my new self. I’d spend hours each week, staring at it from different angles, making different faces, moving in different ways.
Of course, this took a toll on my social life. And naturally, going out less meant I neglected certain elements of self-care. After a few weeks, as I ran a hand through my greasy, unkempt hair, I noticed a large clump just fell out. I was a little alarmed, but didn’t worry too much. After all, its hair was as lush as ever.
Despite feeling almost revolted at the thought of going for a walk, I was absolutely ravenous. Food delivery drivers practically ran into each other on my front step. Needless to say, a diet of burgers and ramen did nothing for my physique.
I cancelled unnecessary dentist appointments. I didn’t bother getting up from the couch to brush my teeth after plowing through another bag of chips. And predictably, my teeth yellowed and developed a permanent fuzzy feeling. It, however, grinned through it all. I, in contrast, avoided smiling. Not that I felt genuinely happy most of the time. I think mesmerized might be the more accurate term.
When my boss started asking me to come into the office to discuss an important opportunity in person, I balked. I put off her request repeatedly, until she stopped calling. In fact, I found she increasingly ignored me. I didn’t really mind.
One day the doorbell rang. I practically jumped out of my skin. I crawled off the couch, dropping the blanket and pillow on the ground as I’d slept there the last few nights. I lurched on unpracticed legs to open the door. Suspiciously, I opened the door only a crack to squint out at the shocking brightness.
A woman stood there, a cheery expression on her face. Her hair was grey streaked and she wore no makeup. Her clothes were utilitarian, and she carried a frayed tote bag. I almost grimaced. If she looked like that in her digital profile, I’d ignore her.
“Hi Doreen. You hadn’t come by in so long, I was worried about you. Look, I brought this so we could work on it together. I bet we could finish in a couple of hours.”
She pulled out the corner of a quilt from her tattered bag.
In my horror, I yanked the door open to snarl, “What would I do with that hideous thing?”
The strange woman’s smile morphed into a look of horror.
“Doreen,” she gasped with a mix of pity and shock. “What’s happened? You look…not yourself.”
“And who do you think you are?” I said defensively.
Then she replied softly, “Your mother.”
Author: Caitlin Carpenter is a writer in Waterloo, Canada.