Tales Of A Tanning Transformation

Miss Manners defines rudeness as the wedding guest who wears white and detracts attention from the bride-to-be. When a recent invitation to a garden wedding arrived, I reminded myself of these rules of etiquette and had my best blue sundress cleaned and pressed. On the day of the event, I donned the dress and matching shawl and believed myself to be the picture of polite. I had no idea I'd end up being the one who, by far, was wearing the most white.

I do not tan. I have freckles and near-translucent skin, the kind that shows off blue veins and stores the memory of broken capillaries just beneath the surface. A wedding guest had the audacity to ask if my legs "glow in the dark." Another onlooker (suddenly this party is a zoo, and I'm the caged attraction!) asked to see my teeth, a joke I didn't get until I heard that some uber-bronzed woman had suggested that I was a vampire, and that this may be my "first time ever seeing the sun." I resisted the urge to spout knowledge of melanoma and premature aging, fought back my ego-bruised tears, and reminded myself that there was nothing wrong with this complexion that matched the bride's gown. But while the bride and groom made their vows, I pulled my shawl around my pale arms and made a vow of my own. By the time the 4th of July's red, white, and blue barbecues rolled around, I would be thicker skinned. Darker skinned. I was gong to be red, bronzed, and blue.

Perhaps I shouldn't have let this peer pressure to alter the surface of my skin get under my skin, as I certainly had no intention of laying in the sun to try to fit in, to swap skin cancer for health just so I can be part of the 'In' crowd here in Southern California. On the drive home I recalled the plethora of articles I'd written on celebrity skin -- from the 'Stars' Favorite Sunblock' to the 'How to Get Your Skin As Fair and Flawless' or as 'Sun Damage Free' as that of Nicole Kidman or Kate Moss (FYI: the secret is DermaNew). I still take pride in the fact that I am well educated on melanoma and well adjusted with my white limbs -- but I was really ready to try to go golden. But how? I knew I couldn't take my California North Titanium Self Tanner - 8 oz bottle and cover hard-to-reach areas (like the middle of my back) as evenly as I could my face and arms, and I refused to show up splotchy. The secret here was to blend the self-tanner so I could blend in. I needed help.

I had heard that the "Spa Soleil" treatment at The Skin Spa in Encino, a $185 procedure that consists of three consecutive days of professional self-tanner applications, was the way to go. Law and Order's Angie Harmon has done it, so has Pamela Anderson. I immediately signed up.

Day 1

After battling an hour and a half of Southern California traffic, I arrived at the spa. A petite woman gave me a robe and slippers, and led me to a private room for "body gommage," a pleasant but vigorous exfoliation of all dead cells, which apparently can make the tanner "stick in patches" if not properly sloughed off. As she scoured my stomach, she asked, "you want boobs, too?" For a split second I didn't understand, and feared I was about to be signed up for implants. Then I noticed she was holding her pineapple-essence grit-covered hands over my chest. "Sure, why not." I replied. If I was going to go for it, I was going to really go for it. Once sloughed, she instructed me to go rinse off in the shower, which must be "cold water only." I followed instructions dutifully, and returned (goosebumped) to the room to be covered in a "re-mineralizing" lotion before getting wrapped in heated gel pads. She left me mummified - for 30 minutes, and then sent me off to the last room for the first tanning mist application.

The application was pretty much what you'd expect - a full body coating of a fine mist, gently rubbed in by a woman who carefully covered all exposed skin with even strokes. Lastly, she held a fan over me for a few minutes, and I was done. All I had to do was abstain from sweating or showering for 8 hours, and return the following day.

Day 2

I couldn't believe it. Though I wasn't tan before I went to sleep (believe me, I checked every 5 minutes), I woke up a completely different shade. There were some streaks on one of my legs, and a heavy patch on the back of one of my arms, but other than that it looked good. Later that day, back at the spa, they concentrated on evening out the streaks, and sent me home with the same instructions. No sweat, no shower.

Day 3

Though the color was a bit orangey, it was now even. I was TAN. I nearly wrecked my car driving to the spa for my final treatment, as I couldn't help but focus on the strangely tan hands that held the steering wheel.

The final application was a cream, rather than a spray, and was applied by a woman I hadn't met before. I trusted she'd done this many times; the palms of her hands were stained a deep, dark brown. She used a buffing pad to apply what the spa refers to as a "sealant," a lotion that insures "long lasting" color and changes orange hues to golden brown. It worked. I woke the next day with bronzed, beach bimbo skin. With a week to go before the barbecue, I was ready to strut my stuff.

A Week To Go

But then again, there was a week to go before the barbecue. The tan faded in about four to five days, and though I hadn't returned to alabaster, I had lost the glow. I needed to act fast, but I didn't have three days to devote to the Skin Spa, which is over an hour from my house. I needed to be creative.

In my garage I have a plastic cup that attaches to the garden hose, so you can spray an even stream of water mixed with Miracle Gro over needy flowerbeds. Perhaps I could use this even-mix theory, and fill that cup with tanning cream, and then it would mix with water, and could be sprayed on me! I imagined myself hunched over, the contraption above my head, trying to coat my back. The neighbors would call the loony bin, and the landlady would call to see if there was something wrong with my shower.

Just as I began to give up and grow up, thumbing through my closet for a 4th of July garment that would be festive and cool (yet only show my face), I heard something on the TV behind me that made me freeze mid-muumuu search. "Looking pasty white is a huge faux-pas in LA," said the newscaster (as though she could hear my mantra! My fairy sun-mother!) "Now you can tan in less than a minute," she continued. I was enrapt. The News at 10 was profiling a new "mist-on" tan, a glow created by standing still in a small booth, while a car wash-esque machine turned the patron golden brown in a mere minute. I dreamt of how I was going to handle being the center of attention at the party, handling all the accolades with coy dismissal, letting people know I was appreciative of their comments about my fabulous tan, while being careful not to condescend as I informed them that I wasn't foolish enough to achieve this glow via UVAs and UVBs.

The next morning, I found this service offered at a local Tanning Salon called 'Total Tan.' I booked my appointment, put my bikini on under my clothes, and headed for the neighborhood tropics. I found the salon on the second floor of a mini mall, under a banner that advertised the thrilling 60-second service. I realized I was nervous. How could this work? The woman I spoke to on the phone was there, and put my mind at ease with her comforting tone and perfect tan. She led me to the Total Tan booth, and gave me some simple instructions.

First, you cover your hair in a cotton shower cap, so as not to tan your tresses. She told me to be careful not to pull the cap down too low, so I wouldn't end up with a tan line across my forehead. Next, you use "blocking lotion" (from a wall dispenser) to cover your hands and the bottoms of your feet, where the tanner can pool and stick in the skin's creases. Finally, she showed me to the dark booth, where a long, vertical metal bar with nozzles would make four passes across my body, with a few seconds in between each motion, so that you can change position. For the front and back, you stand with your arms slightly away from your sides, legs apart. For the two side shots, you stand with one leg in front of the other (to get that inner thigh), with arms bent in front of you, palms together, a la Charlie's Angels.

She told me it was best to hold my breath as the mist was emitted, but assured me it was harmless to breathe, should I accidentally inhale a gulp and inadvertently tan my tonsils. She left me to undress, and I pushed the green button, going for the gold.

The metal bar made a 'whooshing' sound, spraying a fine cloud of mist with each pass. It was over before I knew it, and I could already tell I was tan. I knew that the tan would deepen over the next few hours, but as I blotted myself off, my jaw dropped. For $25 and a literal mere minute of time, I looked as though I'd spent the last four weeks in the Caribbean. Better yet, there was hardly a hint of that telling self-tanner scent certainly far less than there was after my Spa Soleil treatments. Again, I was instructed not to shower for four hours. It was 3 p.m., July 3rd. My debutante ball was less than 24 hours away, and now I could hardly wait.

The next morning I woke up before the alarm, giddy with anticipation. I closed my eyes, took off my nightgown, and hoped for the best. (If my skin was a mess, I still had the muumuu option). When I opened my eyes and looked at my body, I actually laughed out loud. Never in my life had I ever tanned not even in high school, when I spent hours outdoors for various required team sports. This was a whole new me, and was a bit shocking. I couldn't believe it. The pale me was a distant memory, one I toyed with by peeking at my drastic tan line. Was I really that white? Will I really be that same color again in 3-5 days? I admit I loved the look. My teeth looked whiter, my hair seemed blonder, and my new hue hid my body's roadmap of blue veins with flawless, even color.

I headed to the party in a red-and-white striped tank top and blue shorts. I hadn't done a perfect job with the blocking lotion on my feet, so I skipped the sandals and opted for shoes. My friends couldn't believe it, and I told them I couldn't either. I told everyone about my two tanning experiences, and how I really enjoyed celebrating vanity without sacrificing health. Ultimately I showed off my streaky toes, and we all laughed at my amateurish application of the blocking lotion, while marveling at the blue-white skin color a few of my toes revealed. I shared the humor of it all, from my momentary insecurity with my natural skin-tone, to the hilarity of driving home from The Skin Spa with the seat semi-reclined, as I feared a full-upright position would cause the tanner to settle in the sweaty folds of my stomach, and reveal that I was pale AND out of shape. Total Tan made me totally, instantly tan, and I had no problem confessing that I waxed a bit narcissistic with the results.

As darkness came and the fireworks began, the bride from the June wedding arrived, after a two-week honeymoon in Hawaii. She looked fabulously happy, wearing a true honeymooner's glow. We told her she looked great, and she said, "thanks, but you should have seen me a few days ago! I sunburned myself to a crisp in Hawaii, and spent the last day there covering myself in aloe as the skin on my nose peeled off and I worried about skin cancer. In this day and age, there's just GOT to be a way to tan without the trouble, right?"

I smiled. You know how I responded!

Katie Wright
DERMAdoctor Staff Writer

(Any topic discussed in this article is not intended as medical advice. If you have a medical concern, please check with your doctor.)

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