Being naturally pasty of face, I've often looked wistfully at sallow-skinned lovelies and wished for a more Mediterranean complexion. Only twice have I succumbed to the lure of fake tan; most recently about 3 years ago when I was heading for a week to Barcelona. I had learned (through experience) how people there would stare openly at me for being almost translucently pale, so I reckoned a tan might help me to avoid unwanted leering on the metro. I decided to go pro -no streaky home application for me- and went to the beautician to get a spray tan. They don't warn you how humiliating it is, to have to stand wearing nothing but a paper thong while you're power hosed in cold sticky paint. Nor do they warn you that you can't wear underwear until it dries, so you'll need to go commando back to your respectable desk job, knickerless and with nipples that could cut glass visible through your blouse (my bras are -unfortunately- more for insulation than support). Above all, they don't warn you about the smell. I'd noticed it before, on people's clothes and in nightclubs, vaguely unpleasant but nothing I could clearly identify. Like old, wet socks.
They did warn me that it would darken over time and not to panic, to have a shower the following morning and it would be fine. I did, and it was. For a day. Subsequent showers saw the tan peeling off me in strips which meant that I attracted that unwanted attention on the metro anyway, but this time people were moving away and wondering if the peeling skin and the musty smell were symptoms of something catching. Still, at least it came off, albeit in patches. The first time I experimented with fake tan, I wasn't quite so fortunate.
In primary school, our Sports day was always a major event. Not because of any interest in sport but because you got to wear something other than your uniform. School uniforms are a great leveller; pretty girls look plain, plain girls look plain too, risible fashion decisions are avoided. So the opportunity to distinguish yourself on Sports Day was eagerly anticipated. Or fucking dreaded, if you were me, and paranoid about your pasty legs.
A friend of my mother's used to mind my brother and I for a bit after school, and the week before the Big Day I was in her bathroom, idly rifling through her cupboards looking for interesting things to pocket (I was at that klepto stage that all 10 year olds go through) when I found a bottle labelled "False Tan". That'll do! Up the jumper it went.
The following Thursday night I slathered it over my legs in the bathroom at home, paying particular attention to my knees. Off to bed I went, secure in the knowledge that I'd have sexy pins for the egg and spoon race the following day. Imagine my dismay upon waking up to see that my legs looked like they'd been smeared with treacle, and that my knees were a peculiar shade of scutter brown, as were the palms of my hands. Efforts to hide the damage (and the smell) from my mother failed, as shorts were mandatory and gloves were not. I'll talk to you about this when you get home. Fuck.
I spent the bus journey to school with my sleeves pulled over my mahogany palms and my mahogany palms covering my scutter coloured knees, panicking about how I'd hide them once I got to school and how my mam would punish me if I ever made it home. In the end the best I could come up with was to take a fall, literally, and graze the shit out of both hands and knees in the hope that the grass, gravel and blood would provide passable camouflage. The idea was genius. I staged a tumble off the bus and duly flayed myself, which got me out of having to do any sports, covered up my silky tan and scored me some sympathy with mam when I got home.
I call these tales to mind as a caution to myself. I saw a photo today of me standing beside a friend in the pub. She's standard Essex-girl orange, and I am see-through. I caught myself thinking hey, a little bronzer might do no harm...
They did warn me that it would darken over time and not to panic, to have a shower the following morning and it would be fine. I did, and it was. For a day. Subsequent showers saw the tan peeling off me in strips which meant that I attracted that unwanted attention on the metro anyway, but this time people were moving away and wondering if the peeling skin and the musty smell were symptoms of something catching. Still, at least it came off, albeit in patches. The first time I experimented with fake tan, I wasn't quite so fortunate.
In primary school, our Sports day was always a major event. Not because of any interest in sport but because you got to wear something other than your uniform. School uniforms are a great leveller; pretty girls look plain, plain girls look plain too, risible fashion decisions are avoided. So the opportunity to distinguish yourself on Sports Day was eagerly anticipated. Or fucking dreaded, if you were me, and paranoid about your pasty legs.
A friend of my mother's used to mind my brother and I for a bit after school, and the week before the Big Day I was in her bathroom, idly rifling through her cupboards looking for interesting things to pocket (I was at that klepto stage that all 10 year olds go through) when I found a bottle labelled "False Tan". That'll do! Up the jumper it went.
The following Thursday night I slathered it over my legs in the bathroom at home, paying particular attention to my knees. Off to bed I went, secure in the knowledge that I'd have sexy pins for the egg and spoon race the following day. Imagine my dismay upon waking up to see that my legs looked like they'd been smeared with treacle, and that my knees were a peculiar shade of scutter brown, as were the palms of my hands. Efforts to hide the damage (and the smell) from my mother failed, as shorts were mandatory and gloves were not. I'll talk to you about this when you get home. Fuck.
I spent the bus journey to school with my sleeves pulled over my mahogany palms and my mahogany palms covering my scutter coloured knees, panicking about how I'd hide them once I got to school and how my mam would punish me if I ever made it home. In the end the best I could come up with was to take a fall, literally, and graze the shit out of both hands and knees in the hope that the grass, gravel and blood would provide passable camouflage. The idea was genius. I staged a tumble off the bus and duly flayed myself, which got me out of having to do any sports, covered up my silky tan and scored me some sympathy with mam when I got home.
I call these tales to mind as a caution to myself. I saw a photo today of me standing beside a friend in the pub. She's standard Essex-girl orange, and I am see-through. I caught myself thinking hey, a little bronzer might do no harm...
