Spray Tan

I was spray tanned last week. I thought it would be a quick half hour of luxury because it was a chic little place in the Castro and the website claimed: "Step into your own private booth to be gently sprayed with a fine tanning mist that creates a beautiful golden tan in less than one minute...Our tanning solution quickly and evenly covers your entire body."

I thought wrong my friends.

I arrived for my 7:00 AM appointment. The surly and sleeveless-tee'd attendant snipped the shop wasn't ready and I'd have to sit and wait. He then took a huge drag off his Peet's, rubbed his temples dramatically, and strolled outside to talk with another gentleman about moving a vehicle for street cleaning. They had a good chuckle.

Properly caffeinated, he sped-talked me through the process. What I needed to do was goinsidethisroomrubthebarriercreamontheinsideofmypalmsknucklesfingernailsandelbowsandkneesandanklesandtopsofmytoesandinsidemytoesandonmyfingernails.

I asked if I could have the machine avoid my face. That was a stupid question and was greeted with a snort and a condescending mention that I could put the barrier cream on my face but he "couldn't guarantee the results."

Then I needed to hangmyrobeoutsidethebooth,enterthebooth,faceforwardandpushthebuttonandmaketheballerinapose, thenturnandmakethecharlie'sangelspose, thenturnagainandmakeballerinaagain, thenturnagainandmakecharlie'sangelsagain, and trynottoobreathinbetweentheburstsofmistandafterthefourthmistitwillfeellikeit'snotdonebutit'sdoneandyoucangetout.

I did those things. I did those things despite the fact that it was cold and the jets shot forcibly into me while I winced and whimpered and maintained my poses. Yet when I walked into my changing room, I saw that while my face was frighteningly brown, my body had received not the promised even coverage, but a bunch of disc marks with long drips running down. Cute! I grabbed the provided baby wipes and attacked my face in hopes of eradicating those bronze demons first. But then the disc n' drip pattern quickly dried on my legs and arms and shit. Wiping the towel gently across my body as he'd suggested did not help. Asking him how to fix it did not help. He gave me a tiny bottle of self-tanner and told me to "massage it into the affected area." (Hey, do I have a botched tan or A NASTY RASH?).

I went to work and stank like self-tanner through the day. I also went to the wedding with streaked- to very-streaked limbs. Lesson learned: Don't fight the Norwegian.