Smile if there's anything you want, please tell me how it feels to live in a million dreams

When I was a kid the worst time of the year was formal portrait picture taking time. My mother would dress me up in itchy dresses and the stupid photographer would stand behind his camera, shake a toy bird around while doing some silly noises and then shout: Smile! Smile!! with a fake, high pitched 'aren't we having fun' kind of voice. It was awful, and I never quite got over it. (I made a promise to never subject my own children to the same torture, and have stuck to it so far.) School photo day was equally horrible. My mother still has some of the portraits on her wall. Horse face with her rabbit teeth. Although I think I look marginally better as a grown-up, looking at pictures of myself as a kid still makes me cringe. How is it possible to look so completely goofy? (The customary Swedish fashion in the 70's, with orange corduroy and wool ribbed turtlenecks you could fold eight times around your neck didn't help either.)
The portraits came out a disaster, without failing. My big front teeth pushed their way out of my mouth no matter how hard I tried to pinch my lips together. My husband can vouch for this: my smile is not one of my most becoming features. Without getting to Freudian about the whole thing, smiling is not my default facial expression. If it has to do with my face or plainly because I don't always have things to smile about, I don't know, but there you go: I am not a natural smiler. I have huge front teeth.

So one thing I never could get used to during my ten years in London was the impertinent and condescending remarks from strange guys on the street like "cheer up, luv, it might never 'appen", "it can't be that bad, luv" and the various variations of it, as: "g'is a smile, luv", or, "what's with the face?". If you want to make someone hit you over the head with their hand-bag, this is the best way to do it. If you genuinely want someone to smile at you, you need to rethink. Trust me.
When I moved across the pond, I thought I'd never hear it again. Ever.

Today, I went to Andronico's supermarket to get some food for dinner and when I get to the fish-counter, I ask for scallops and prawn, and get this reply:
- You can. If you give me a smile first.
As clear as a bright blue sky on a summer's day. With a nod that tells me that he really will insist on the smile, or he will put up a fight before he parts with any such sea-related food products.
Part of me wants to just turn away with a:
- Fine. Suit yourself.
Part of me wants to demand to talk to the manager about his staff harassing innocent customers as they go about their weekly food-business after a late night trick or treating with the kids with an added promise of never ever returning to this food store ever again.
But part of me is just to damn tired to care, and so, by moving the corner of my mouth, I give him a half-way smile and as I do, I feel those big front teeth push up against the inside of my lips again, wanting to get out in the open.

He was just trying to be friendly. I know. As was the guy at the check out counter who once ruffled my daughters hair until she nearly started crying, because he liked her curls so much. They are all trying to be friendly. But I am Swedish. Personal space is very important to me. Having the right not to smile and still get my fresh scallops nicely wrapped in brown paper without hassle is huge thing.
It doesn't mean I'm in a bad mood or a rude person. It just means that I was scared for life when I had my picture taken as a kid, alright?