Spray tans terrify me. However, after realising parts of me resembled a whiter shade of pale, I decided it was time to give it a go…
I turn up the salon in a pair of skinny jeans (big mistake), wedge shoes that are way too high for me and an unhealthy dose of excitement about what’s in store. Maybe I’ll emerge from this shop as a bronzed goddess, Stars in Their Eyes style. Like someone plucked from the streets of St Tropez, hair shaking in Farrah Fawcett fashion, emanating a radiant glow…
Ten minutes later and I’m in a very small room, wearing very little. A woman’s standing in front of me holding something resembling my mum’s plant sprayer that my brother and I used to have water fights with. It also looks like a fumigator device used by bee-hunters. That would be an interesting role on a CV, eh? Louise the Bee-Hunter. But I digress.
For the next twenty minutes I assume a number of rather unnatural and potentially unfortunate positions. Hands in air. Hands behind back. Foot out. Foot in. All part of the spraying experience I guess. The woman does seem to be putting on an awful lot though.
“And you’ve brought some loose clothes to change into, yes?”
“Oh well, never mind, the streakage shouldn’t be too bad.”
Streakage? Oh god. Remain calm.
I’m now left to dry myself off with what looks like a vacuum cleaner. I dress quickly, and step outside. My hands look a wee bit brown, but that’s the point, right?
When I get home the full effect is shockingly obvious. I’m the lovechild of an orangutan and Jordan. Especially on my hands, which now have a garishly carrot hue.
“I warned you about getting this done,” fiancé says, struggling to contain his evil glee.
Next morning, I wake up feeling refreshed. Surely it will have dyed down by now? Nope. It’s worse. I can almost feel myself changing colour by the second. Drastic times call for drastic measures, and I turn to my old pal Google for some advice. Washing up powder. “That’s ridiculous,” murmers half-asleep fiancé. But I hardly hear him as I’m already on my way to the kitchen sink.
Thus follows half an hour of scrubbing and praying. It seems to work a bit. Although now my neck and face, devoid of attention, are much darker than the rest of me. “I’m never getting this done again,” I bellow. “My little oompa loompa,” comes the voice from afar. “Shut up.”
So I’ve decided that fake tanning is probably not for me. Had this been a day or two before the
wedding, as opposed to a trial run, it could have sent me into heart failure. Plus don’t get me started on the smell. Malty and meaty. Like a pint and a pie. Not attractive. Although I did consider bringing out some of my more interesting dance moves while getting it done. Or the Usain Bolt one. Now that makes me chuckle. Although if I had one iota of his running talent I should really have legged it out of there. At lightning speed.