On gravy browning

Being a gingre, I’m a naturally pale and freckled sort. I have had a natural tan precisely once, after a six-week heatwave in Amsterdam, during which most of my time was spent outdoors drinking rosé. The odds of this recurring back here on home turf are somewhat more remote, although the less clement weather keeps me covered up most of the time anyway.

But then come the rare and glorious days like today, where it’s twenty degrees at nine o’clock in the morning and jeans just won’t do. So, on goes a skirt and out come the milkbottles and the stopwatch, for, invariably, it won’t be long before someone mentions how pale I am, and would I not think about slapping on a little bit of fake tan to “take the edge off”*.

The short, non-rude answer to that is no, not any more.

See, I’ve tried the fake bake. I’ve even paid someone to spray the stuff on me so I can’t blame my own clumsiness when it turns out badly, as it always does. It looks great on some people, sure – my little sister always manages to look like she’s just spent a week in Lanzarote, not an hour standing like John Wayne. Me, I always end up with streaks, no matter what I do, and the colour is always too dark for my natural pallor, which in turn makes my hair look like straw. And don’t get me started on days two and three, when it starts to wear off, and I begin to resemble a washed-out Tony the Tiger.

So, pale and freckled it is, with added factor 30 lest I burn, which looks way worse than any shade of fake tan.

*yes, I have been asked this question