An eight-year hickey

So my driver's license expires tomorrow and I loaded up the troops and headed to the DMV. I hurried them through lunch, hollering into the dining room as I primped- determined that the notorious "nightmare photo" wouldn't be so bad. At one point, while craning to keep the kids on task I burned my neck with the curling iron, but didn't think much of it as I packed books, snacks and sleeping bags for the full afternoon wait I was sure was awaiting us.
We were pleased when we took number 98 and they were on 86. Two chapters of Little House later I was up to bat. All went very smoothly. I got to take the vision restriction off the back of my license, "yes, I will give my organs," "yes, I weigh that... usually," and then off to the little photo curtain, "Cheese" and "Here you go, Molly. Your photo turned out nice!"

"Whew," I thought, "cause I don't renew this for eight more years!"
Then I looked.
And maybe it's just because I'm not into the whole public-display-of-vacuum-like affection thing, but I just don't think the burn gives a "nice" look to the photo.