If you're of German and English descent, you'll know the meaning of true white (it's so bright, it's got a tinge of blue).
As a teen, I'd lie out in the sun with my olive-toned friends, and every time the outcome was the same: they'd turn brown, and I'd turn this interesting shade of maroon.
In the 1990s, just before a high school class reunion, I thought I'd hit pay dirt where a tan was concerned. Armed with a bottle of bronzer, I applied and reapplied every three hours until I looked like a blond Native American Indian. Becoming more skilled as I practiced, the streaks and blotches soon disappeared as my methods improved.
Being tan was new; I couldn't stop staring at my own brown arms. I loved it. People started commenting, asking if I'd just been on vacation. I wasn't embarrassed of the fact that I bronzed. Movie stars and models, not wanting to harm their best asset, wouldn't dream of a tanning bed or sun exposure. If it was good enough for Hollywood, it was good enough for me.
With the brand I'd used for a couple of years, I prepared for a trip to Oahu, Hawaii. The tannest guy on the plane trip over the ocean approached me, and in a humorous conversation, we compared brands. (He liked the Australian kind.)
I couldn't wait to hit the beach with my tan. I think the beach felt differently. The minute the salt water met my bronzed skin, a curious chemical reaction occurred. And I turned orange. Not just sorta orange, but Sunkist, nowhere-to-run orange. Worse, the sand acted as an exfoliant on knees and elbows, so now my 'orangutan' was checkerboarded, too.
There were no photos taken that day.
When Ashley Rupert of Spray of Sunshine asked if I'd like to try her bronzing system, you can understand my hesitancy. My biggest question was: Would I be orange.
For $20 and a fun chat with Ashley at her home salon, all was well. I was not orange, I was bronzed, the formula made me skin feel very conditioned, and all of that was just plain pretty darn awesome.
No comments:
Post a Comment