Fake Bake

You may find this shocking, but...

I am not naturally a bronzed blonde beauty. (when I wrote that, I meant to highlight my fake tan, and then realized that I'm not naturally blonde either... ho hum)

My dad walks into the sun for a mere moment, and he instantly develops a golden glow. My brother had this same talent, and even my fair-skinned mother isn't so fair as me. With my "black Dutch" heritage (that's redneck-racist for Native American, I think), one might think with a little effort I could work up some sort of color...

One would be wrong. My skin has two modes: fair and burnt. Each of these versions comes in the freckled variety. I mean, really, I'm just a few steps away from being a ginger (no offense, E). As I am not a ginger, though, my processed-platinum hair and blue eyes benefit greatly from a little sun love. But... we have already discussed my skin's relationship with the sun: toxic.

Sure, I could hop in the tanning bed from time to time. It's quick and easy and the perfect place for a power nap... or a little daily dose of cancer. I am firmly of the belief that "everything" gives you cancer these days; however, now that it's in my head, I can feel my ovaries frying up and my freckles darkening and any existing moles turning into little Death Stars.

So: no sun, no tanning bed. What's a girl to do? Yes, the fake bake. Or tan in a can, if you will (although I do not buy my own can anymore as I have had one too many streaky, unfortunate results). Instead, I head down to the local tanning salon (why is it called a salon??) and pop into the spray tan booth, where I am sprayed down four times with a golden mist and then blasted with air. It's kind of like a car wash for the Pale Face.

This process is not so easy as it may sound. First, you must shower pre-session. This rinses all the oil and lotion and crap off you so you don't streak. When you arrive you rub magical blending cream onto your hands and feet (another streak-free measure). You wrap your hair up in a surgical cap, and hop in the tiny chamber. When the freezing mist hits you, your heart races as you realize that this tiny compartment is so full of tanning fog and so empty of good, clean oxygen. And then the things you must remember: bend your knees slightly, flex your knuckles so no lines for, cock your wrists so your palms aren't bronzed, and on and on. You have to carefully plan your tanning session so that you don't have anywhere to go for four hours afterward (it has to sit for at least four hours before you can shower), and if you go mid-day you risk sweating streaks into your new glow on your drive home (serious hazard if you have leather seats).

So... no, it's not a simple process. In fact, it's a hassle. You can call me vain if you want... but I just see it as being proactive about my pigment disability. And as long as you're not orange (think Lindsay Lohan, or see the below picture of that darling George Hamilton), it's way better than sweating it out at the pool or jumping in the ol' cancer box.