Stand Samples: winter tanning

Arriving at the South Street salon (formerly known as Suntandrews, apparently) with five minutes to spare before the 8:00pm closing time meant we amateurs had to learn to navigate the procedures of indoor tanning hastily. I don’t know what I had expected. Perhaps some kind of safety lecture? An instructional video? I definitely still had some questions unanswered: “How clothed is too clothed?” was one, “Will this lead to my death?” another.

The decor was very Scandinavian sweat lodge, pine everywhere, but Kingdom FM blaring on the radio made the ambiance distinctly Fife. The usual registration process was deferred until our next visit in order to squeeze us in before close. Left alone in the small, pine cubicle dominated by the vast, coffin-like sunbed I disrobed to my underpants and searched for somewhere to put my clothes. Establishing that the floor was the only option, I then searched for the eye protection. I lay down with the little cup-like goggles perched awkwardly over my eyes and prepared for whatever was about to happen.

All of a sudden, the machine burst to life and exploded in bright blue light. A powerful fan burst into life at my feet blowing violently to disperse the hot air from the lamps. I felt like I was in a convection oven. That said, the six minutes passed so peacefully I could have slept there. I’ve read it releases an endorphin rush in the brain that gives it addictive qualities. I believe that.  

At first the skin on my face felt a little taut, like I’d been outside all day. Then I noticed I had distinct lines where untanned flesh met the newly pink region of my upper thigh. Dani’s “Iranian glow” had definitely been topped up. She said my complexion was recognizably better, even if I was yet to broach David Dickinson territory.

Our second trip was better timed. The registration card asked some discomforting questions like “Do you have a history of sunburn, especially in childhood?” Doesn’t everyone? I felt reassured as I don’t think I have “excessive moles” or a family history of skin cancer. It costs £5 for six minutes, £6 for nine. I think that being a fair-skinned Scot means six is totally sufficient.

“So what kind of people come here?”, I asked the young woman at the desk.

“Well, I expected it would be lots of very orange girls.” she replied. “We actually get a lot of people here when they have acne, and quite often we have 70 year olds with psoriasis.”

I’ll remember to wipe the bed down before using it next time.

The aftermath of this trip was definitely more perceptible.  I am lightly tanned. There has been a negative PR onslaught against sunbeds in recent years, and I’m sure frequent use is dangerous. The risk to the occasional user, however, is probably negligible. Although the aesthetic effects of over-indulgence is disincentive enough for me to visit too often, for use in moderation, Abetatan definitely lives up to its name.

Written by by Alasdair Clarkson and Dani Goldberg, understand writers