Have you seen my short thick head?

It was a dark day for Oberlin. Our one cards were ready. We could go pick them up. This announcement heralded the end of unlimited free meals for co-opers, CDSers and off-boarders. The days when friends could say, "I ate four meals today, and I didn't even have dinner," had come to an end. We students had to play by the rules again. I thought this would be the worst part of receiving our one cards. But I was wrong. I had not yet actually seen my one card and its depiction of my head.

"Wow, they really did you in," my housemate said to me, sympathetically, upon viewing my brand new identification. "Do I really look like that?" I asked him, hoping for, and receiving, an emphatic no.

Upon receiving the one card I went home, looked in the mirror and compared my face to the one on my ID. Then I compared it to my old validine. The only major criticism I hear about my old validine is that I look unnecessarily morose. I have no problem with looking unnecessarily morose. Especially after looking at my one card.

In my one card my face is widened, my complexion grey and splotchy. I studied myself in the mirror, wondering: Is my face really this fat? Do I always look like I just barely survived a night of hard alcohol experimentation gone horribly awry? After some scrutiny, I decided I look like a cross between the grim reaper and someone with a severe hangover.

I'm not the only upperclassman horrified at their digitized image, though one person tells me she thinks I have the worst picture she's seen thus far. One friend appears to have a shrunken, purple head, a deathly pallor that makes him look like a vampire or a sick California Raisin. Other people give off an unhealthy green or orange glow. At meals, in the mailroom, before classes, I find myself showing people my new ID with a grimace. Before I present viewers with the card they ask: "Is your head elongated or widened?" "Widened," I answer. And after their laughter has died down, people generally agree and assure me that no, I really don't look like that.

I do talk to the occasional person who is pleased with their picture. One friend looks relatively normal, despite her face's unnatural orange sheen.

These new one cards are bad for my self-image, I tell one friend. They're the worst thing to happen since my driver's license. In my driver's license, I look like I have a flip-top head. Like the Muppets have. The shadows fall exactly right, and I bear a strong resemblance to an enthusiastic Guy Smiley. Friends who scrutinize my driver's license exclaim (after their laughter has died down), "I've never seen you make that face before! How did you do that?"

Now I'm more comfortable with my driver's license. I show it to people when they're sad, to cheer them up. It never fails to elicit a smile. With the one card, I can display two horrible forms of identification, and maybe be extra funny and bring a little good humor to everybody's day. It might take a little time, but I'm sure I'll soon show people my one card with a flourish, hoping to make their day a little more pleasant.