Tangoed
I have a typical Scottish complexion. For those of you who don't know, this means white. As in, milk bottle white. Pure incandescent white.
Now, my wedding dress is also white (actually it's ivory but, meh). The point is that my natural colouring means I blend in so well with the dress that you barely see me. So I went for a spray tan yesterday, as a practise run to see how I would look with a bronzed glow, in preparation for tomorrow when I get to collect The Dress, and prance around my mum's living room with it on.
So. I am instructed to remove all my makeup (gargh!) and am shown into a tiny room (really more of a cupboard) with a non slip floor, and a scary looking contraption with hoses and cylinders in one corner. The drop-dead gorgeous beauty therapist (why are they always supermodel material? Just to make you feel really inadequate?) tells me to remove all my clothes, gives me a plastic shower cap and a pair of paper pants to put on, then leaves the room. Why they feel the need to give you privacy when you're getting your kit off is beyond me - they're about to see you in all your glory anyway - but I'm sure they have their reasons.
So there I am, pretty much in the altogether, peely-wally in the bright glare of the spotlight directly above me, without the usual scaffolding and cosmetic enhancements of clothes and makeup, and all my wibbly bits and imperfections in plain view. Then Gorgeous Beauty Therapist comes back in looking, if it's possible, even more supermodelly. She fires up the contraption in the corner, and begins the process of turning me from pure brilliant white to healthily bronzed. She shouts various directions to me above the noise of the contraption - raise this arm, lift that leg, turn this way, turn that way, in, out, shake it all about. I feel like a Ford Fiesta in the garage getting a re-spray.
But by the end of it, I look more tanned than I have ever been in my life. When I go on holiday, I start off my natural white, then turn pinker and pinker as the week goes on. I then go ever so slightly brown, and by the time I've been home a week I'm white again. So it was a bit of a shock to see myself looking anything other than pasty white.
I got another fright this morning when I looked in the mirror. They advise you not to shower or wash until the next morning, so the actual tan, and the brown stuff they spray on you to make you tan, combined to make me look startlingly beige. Thankfully the colour calmed down a fair bit after my shower, so I don't look like I've been tangoed (hopefully). My colleagues didn't point and laugh when I came into the office this morning, so I'm taking that as a good sign.
I do have an amusing outline of pure white where the little paper pants were - I considered taking a picture of it, purely for comedy value, but I really don't think I can (or should) stoop to posting pictures of my arse on the internet.
Now, my wedding dress is also white (actually it's ivory but, meh). The point is that my natural colouring means I blend in so well with the dress that you barely see me. So I went for a spray tan yesterday, as a practise run to see how I would look with a bronzed glow, in preparation for tomorrow when I get to collect The Dress, and prance around my mum's living room with it on.
So. I am instructed to remove all my makeup (gargh!) and am shown into a tiny room (really more of a cupboard) with a non slip floor, and a scary looking contraption with hoses and cylinders in one corner. The drop-dead gorgeous beauty therapist (why are they always supermodel material? Just to make you feel really inadequate?) tells me to remove all my clothes, gives me a plastic shower cap and a pair of paper pants to put on, then leaves the room. Why they feel the need to give you privacy when you're getting your kit off is beyond me - they're about to see you in all your glory anyway - but I'm sure they have their reasons.
So there I am, pretty much in the altogether, peely-wally in the bright glare of the spotlight directly above me, without the usual scaffolding and cosmetic enhancements of clothes and makeup, and all my wibbly bits and imperfections in plain view. Then Gorgeous Beauty Therapist comes back in looking, if it's possible, even more supermodelly. She fires up the contraption in the corner, and begins the process of turning me from pure brilliant white to healthily bronzed. She shouts various directions to me above the noise of the contraption - raise this arm, lift that leg, turn this way, turn that way, in, out, shake it all about. I feel like a Ford Fiesta in the garage getting a re-spray.
But by the end of it, I look more tanned than I have ever been in my life. When I go on holiday, I start off my natural white, then turn pinker and pinker as the week goes on. I then go ever so slightly brown, and by the time I've been home a week I'm white again. So it was a bit of a shock to see myself looking anything other than pasty white.
I got another fright this morning when I looked in the mirror. They advise you not to shower or wash until the next morning, so the actual tan, and the brown stuff they spray on you to make you tan, combined to make me look startlingly beige. Thankfully the colour calmed down a fair bit after my shower, so I don't look like I've been tangoed (hopefully). My colleagues didn't point and laugh when I came into the office this morning, so I'm taking that as a good sign.
I do have an amusing outline of pure white where the little paper pants were - I considered taking a picture of it, purely for comedy value, but I really don't think I can (or should) stoop to posting pictures of my arse on the internet.
This entry was posted
on Friday, July 20, 2007 at 10:12 am.
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Should go to one of the booth ones. You go there naked. No white bits on the big night ;-)
picture picture!!!
I love my beauty therapist! She's a good size 18, mid-30s, from the country, and completely down to earth. One time she was on holiday and I booked an emergency facial with one of her colleagues who turned out to be an 18-year-old size called Stacey. She was a very nice girl, but I went home feeling like a fat, spotty lump, and vowed that if I can't get my usual lady, I'll just use a face mask at home in future.
Cat, you have a beauty therapist????????? my god. I have only had one facial. Must try harder.
Glad they didn't tango you, teeny!
She's not just mine, obviously, but I do try to go to her for a facial every six weeks. I'd go every week if I could afford it!
I was just thinking. . .what circumstances constitute an 'emergency facial'?
I was just thinking, "What's a facial?". I've always found that a quick rub-down with an oily rag is sufficient; and I have a bath once a month, whether I need it or not.
That way, nobody can tell if it is a suntan, dirt, or rust.
Excuse me, gotta go, my microwave meal for one is ready.
Queenie - Much as I prefer the thought of a booth that can't laugh at my wobbly bits, I think I'd rather have a human spray me prior to the horror that is wedding pictures...
Jellybaby - You really don't want me to do that. Trust me. Anyway it's faded now so I couldn't post a picture if I wanted to. Even just to boost my sitemeter...
Cat - I'm also in awe that you have a beauty therapist to call your own. If I wasn't acutely aware that I'm getting lots of pictures taken of me in SIX WEEKS (!), I'd normally make do with some Johnson's Holiday Skin.
LondonGirl - I've only ever had one facial and I couldn't stop giggling. The beauty therapist thought I was a freak.
Lynx - Maybe I should just stop washing then? It would certainly save £40 on a spray tan every few weeks...
I'm conscious I sound very high maintenance here. I am Acne Girl, remember? I find the facials really help. I do my own nails and fake tanning when I can be arsed though - I'm definitely a Johnsons fan.
And an emergency facial is required when there's a pre hot date breakout!
It seems that girls' skin is slightly different; I don't think general neglect and the occasional application of Castrol GTX would be your best bet.
Oh, that kind of facial!
A tan is like a roast chicken, the white bits are the best!
You know, I never did understand that phrase: "milk bottle white". Milk bottles are transparent - it's the milk seen through them that's white. Ergo, the "bottle" is redundant, except for keeping milk in.
sup, dude? <3 ur cats, they're adorable
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