Adventures in Spray-Tanning: A Cautionary Tale by Cara Chace

Adventures in Spray-Tanning: A Cautionary Tale

 

By Cara Chace

 

I am a woman who likes to be tan. It evokes in me a sense a calm and leisure, almost in an “island paradise screen-saver, which is really a silent scream for help so don’t turn your back” kind of way. I am not blessed with olive skin, but I’m not pale either. My tanning adventures usually consist of whatever happens to happen, and hopefully I am not wearing a short sleeved t-shirt when I do inevitably get scorched.

 

A week ago I went to my hair stylist for my regular 6 weeks appointment. She informed me that every Friday evening throughout the summer she would be hosting “spray-tanning parties”. This would consist of a bunch of women getting coated with noxious gas paint, while sipping champagne and nibbling sushi. “Sure,” I said…noting that the price was only $40, which is cheaper than most places. She assured me that this was so much better than an automatic Mystic Tan booth, as the color would be applied by a real person, namely her cousin.

 

Friday arrived, and I was mentally congratulating myself that I had remembered to shave my legs and exfoliate that morning. I begged off work early and bee-lined to the salon, lest all the champagne be gone before I arrived. I called my husband to let him know I was getting a spray tan and would be home late. “You’re doing what?!” he exclaimed. You would have thought I had just said I was going to get my nose pierced and my hair dyed blue, and would be home in a few. Apparently he knew something I didn’t, which is still a mystery.

 

I walked in to see several women, who already looked tan, wearing long and loose maxi dresses. As I had just arrived from work, I was wearing trouser jeans, a jersey top, and closed-toe flats. Glimmers of “they also know something I don’t” began to dart around in my head, and the cousin gleefully stated that she was ready for me.

 

The tanning station was set up in the one-toilet bathroom. The human-height pup tent took up the entire floor space, and blocked said toilet. The cousin was equipped with a bottle of color, a shop vacuum device, a box fan on the floor, and a face mask covering her nose and mouth. At this point, two dubious thoughts entered my head: “How are all these women going to go potty after drinking a few glasses of champagne?” and “She brought one color to spray all these different women…hmm.”

 

After the spraying was done, she told me to wait for my skin to dry, to stand in front of the floor fan, carefully put on my clothes, and join the rest of the party. She left the bathroom, and I squeezed into the corner with the mirror to take a look. I don’t know if the audible gasp was heard outside of the restroom, but I looked like I had been dipped in wet clay. I dutifully stood in front of the floor fan, noting that the air was hitting from my knees down (as fans on the floor are wont to do). “Well,” I thought, “My feet will be super-duper dry by the time the rest of me is dry.” 

 

At this point I noticed that my palms looked like they had been covered in Cheetos dust. I cracked open the door and motioned for the cousin to come in. “How do I clean-up my hands?” I asked wide-eyed with a discernable tone of panic. “Oh, just use a pumice stone.” She, however, pronounced the word “poo-miss”, instead of “puh-miss”, and I had to ask her to repeat herself. I swear I thought she had said “poo-piss”, and well that’s just going too far. She told me that I was dry enough to put my clothes back on, but to be very careful to not smear my coat of wet clay. I remembered all the women in the loose maxi dresses, and their insider information became clear.

 

As I exited the restroom, I was greeted by several “Ooohs and Ahhhs”, and one “Oh look! You’re tan!” This solicited a “I hope you didn’t procreate” smile from me, and I sat down to enjoy a glass of champagne. It was then that I noticed a woman, mid-forties, who was walking around the salon like a bad game of ping-pong. The term walking is being kind – it was more like a combination of twirling and shuffling. It quickly became apparent that she was either drunk and/or high on Valium. Everything that came out of her mouth was a declaration, and all the other women seemed to know her and find her amusing. She declared that she was going to flat-iron her hair, and plopped down in one of the salon chairs. My stylist (also the salon owner) rushed over to intervene, with visions of insurance claims dancing in her head. The Valium lady swiveled towards me and stated that she needed to let her legs dry more. She hiked up her maxi dress and I discovered that she apparently doesn’t like bikini lines as she was…panty-less. Champagne or no champagne, I high-tailed it out of there and headed home.

 

I walked in the front door and was greeted by my two dogs, who immediately began to lick my arms like I had been dipped in beef jerky juice. This solicited a dance/hop reminiscent of the old western shooting-bullets-at-people’s-feet dance. My husband, to his credit, said nothing about my new look – although I did notice that he avoided eye contact. I refrained from asking him what he thought, so he didn’t have to lie and not laugh at the same time. We went about our evening, never once mentioning the obvious day-glow state of my skin. 

 

I had been instructed to not shower until the next morning (to really let the color set in…great), and to sleep on a towel. I gingerly crawled into bed between two beach towels, like a Cheetos sandwich. The next morning, I catapulted out of bed and into the bathroom to take a look. I was now a full-on Oompa-Loopma, and I am not exaggerating in the slightest. I was told that the color would shower-off, and I would be left with a nice and natural tan. A pool of orange-colored water at my feet, I washed and scrubbed, using my “poo-miss” stone on my hands and feet. While the “poo-miss” stone helped, I still had a definite rust-like stain on my hands and feet. After drying off, I noticed that since I could not reach the middle of my back, the orange color in the middle of my back was darker than my shoulders and lower back…sigh. I went back to the bedroom, where my husband commented in true guy fashion, “Huh, your boobs are tan.” 

 

MORAL OF THE STORY:

 

Most spray tans applied by a person are upwards of $60 and they last about one week. Do yourself a favor – Purchase the following for the same amount of money: SPF 50 sunscreen, Jergens Natural Glow moisturizer, a maxi dress, and cute pair of sandals. The best part? They will last you all summer…

 

Happy Shopping!