The Spray Tan

I remember one night in 2012, we were watching Have I Got for News for You, and my mother warned me that I’d “end up like Berlusconi”. I assumed she meant that I would become a lying womaniser, or at least that’s what I’d hoped. It turns out that I’ve ended up orange, because on Friday afternoon I had a spray tan. I was going to have it on Thursday, but I had a date that night, so I postponed it. I thought turning up on a date essentially blacked up might send out the wrong signal. I was warned to exfoliate and shower before the tan, which I didn’t know how to do. (Exfoliate I mean, I know how to shower. In fact, I’d say it was one of the few areas in life that I am absolutely world class. I nail it every time. EVERY TIME.)

I had to buy some exfoliating body-scrub from Boots, which took ages because there are a million different sorts. It’s like buying hair wax, which is getting ridiculous now: the choice is absurd. You can get wax, gel, putty, paste, spray, clay; it’s voluminizing, just got out of bed look, wet-look, extreme style, rapist. All the brands are called stupid things like “Fudge”, or “Fish Fingers”, or “Old Man’s Jizz”. Only one of those is made up: “Fudge”. A lot of people think “Old Man’s Jizz” is made up, but you can actually get that: my granddad sells it. You can’t buy it in shops mind, he sells it door to door or at festivals from a van. He doesn’t call it “Old Man’s Jizz” though, obviously, no-one would buy it. He calls it “yoghurt”, because who doesn’t like yoghurt? (His customers, mainly.)

I arrived at the tanning salon. On the way in I walked past a woman who looked like an orang-utan’s ball-bag. The girl behind the counter said I could have “dark or dark dark”, so I asked her what the difference was. “Do you want to look like Enrique Iglesias or Denzel Washington?” she said. I went for “dark”. Kayleigh was very chatty, asking me lots of questions, “So are you having this before you go on holiday or is it just a treat for your boyfriend?”

She showed me to the tanning booth. I had assumed that the process would be basically me stood naked against a wall whilst I was hosed down with orange paint. That’s what I’d heard anyway. However, I was actually shown to an electronic spray-tanning booth, a bit like the Tardis but 4000% more gay. The electronic voice of a woman who sounded like the Tom Tom lady talked me through the whole process. All I had to do was take my clothes off and put a blue fish-net cap on my head. I looked like a Greggs employee who'd had a breakdown.

I had my front done first, ensuring I lifted up my penis for full coverage, before turning around for an even covering. The spray feels cold, like deodorant, and smells like a cross between chocolate and low self-esteem. Fifteen minutes later it was all finished. I wasn’t that brown, which annoyed me for some reason even though I had initially dreaded the whole idea of a fake tan. However, Kayleigh reassured me that the tan would really develop in about eight hours’ time.

Eight hours later I was at the Bloomsbury Theatre watching a show. There were three intervals, and every time I came back from one I was a different race. After the third interval the bloke sat next to me actually said “Sorry mate, someone’s sitting there”. On the tube home I could feel people’s eyes on me, people were staring and then unsubtly whispering things to their friends and giggling. I felt embarrassed and compelled to bury myself in my Evening Standard, but I resisted because embarrassment is kind of the point. My date asked me on Thursday night what I'd learnt from my Groupon adventure, and I told her the biggest thing is that I've been so marinated in humiliation that dignity is not something I feel I need anymore, which is oddly empowering. I mean, six months ago I don't think I would have had the plums to take a date to Weatherspoons on a 50% off voucher. We had two burgers and a bottle of wine for 30p. 

When I got home from the theater I had a shower, which the fake tan turned into some sort of diarrhea theme-park. A day later the colour has mellowed and I’ve got to say I look absolutely gorgeous. I can see why people get addicted to these. But it does seem like a huge amount of expense and hassle to look 10% better than other people in the beauty arms race. I feel sorry for women who are culturally pressured into this sort of thing. They should get government tax-breaks, because a female health and beauty regime is so much more expensive than a man’s. Although that’s changing: I know at least three men who use hair straighteners now. To be fair one of them uses it to make toasties, and another one uses it to punish his neighbour’s cat, but still.

A lot of you are probably wondering what I look like. Here’s a photo taken that night at the Bloomsbury: