Diego Guadarrama

Last week, I went to renew my driver’s license here in Mexico City. Simple task, right? Not for me. The line was long, the air smelled like old paper and cheap coffee, and the fluorescent lights hummed in that irritating way that makes you question your sanity. By the time I got to the counter, I was already tired.

The clerk behind the desk, a young guy with slicked-back hair and the kind of mustache that suggests it’s his first attempt, barely glanced up. “Look at the camera, sir.”

So, I did. Neutral face. Click.

He frowned at the screen, then at me. “Uh… sir, could you maybe smile a bit?”

Now, here’s the thing—people always think I’m in a bad mood because of my face. It’s not my fault. I’m 54, and for every one of those years, I’ve had this permanently serious look. My father was the same way. Even when he was thrilled, he looked like he was about to interrogate someone.

But I tried. I really did. I pulled the corners of my mouth up slightly. Click.

The clerk leaned forward, squinting. “Sir… you look like you’re about to fire someone.”

I chuckled. “This is my best smile.”

He didn’t chuckle back. Instead, he glanced sideways, probably checking if the security guard was nearby.

“Okay, let’s try relaxing the face,” he suggested, as if I hadn’t been living in this face for over five decades.

So, I went for it. I raised my eyebrows, widened my eyes, and stretched my mouth into the biggest grin I could manage. Click.

He stared at the screen for a long moment. “Now you look like you’re in pain.”

At this point, I couldn’t help but laugh. A real, deep laugh that echoed in the quiet room. That got some heads turning. The clerk, however, didn’t seem amused.

“Let’s… let’s just use the second one.”

So now, for the next ten years, every time I show my ID, people will think I’m silently judging them or plotting something. Maybe it’s fitting. Life’s too short to worry about how I look in a photo.

Besides, it could’ve been worse. At least I didn’t blink.