When I was just eleven, Baz Luhrmann released his unconventional anthem about sunscreen, a peculiar yet comforting reminder that stuck with me through the years. His message was clear: “If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.” This monologue resonated deeply, influencing my decision to embrace sunscreen while I often sidelined other advice in life. As a pale, bookish preteen more inclined to stay indoors than engage in sports, the allure of sunscreen was a simple notion I could grasp. I became devoted to a high SPF—50, to be exact, favoring Soltan for body coverage and a fancier option for my face. Dr. Maryam Zamani’s words echo my own philosophy: “There’s no such thing as a safe tan.” The moment your skin starts to change color is the moment you know there’s been damage. Understanding this kept me shielded more faithfully than most.
Paleness has been my lifelong companion, and despite my insecurities, I’ve never felt the urge to change who I am to fit into society’s golden tan ideal. In a world swayed by the allure of sun-kissed skin, I found solace in the literary works of authors like Sylvia Plath and Thomas Hardy. Their characters often reflected my own feelings of fragility and introspection, with their skin being pale, almost translucent, as if it were a canvas of their inner turmoil. This connection to literature offered me an identity that I could embrace, one far removed from the stereotypical expectations of beauty during my formative years.
The journey of self-acceptance wasn’t easy, as echoed by Karen Elson, who shares a similar story of struggling with her fair complexion. In her youth, she was dubbed “Ghost” by her peers, a nickname that stung but eventually transformed into an unexpected source of pride. Like many, she initially sought the sun in pursuit of beauty, enduring painful burns in the hope of fitting in. However, upon entering the modeling world, her alabaster skin became a defining feature that set her apart. Karl Lagerfeld’s fascination with her unique complexion opened her eyes to the realization that what was once perceived as a flaw was, in fact, an asset worthy of protection and admiration.
Unlike most of my friends, I’ve never felt the need to fake tan or step into a sunbed. The depths of winter may tempt me towards seasonal affective disorder, but even then, I would rather bear the chill than bask in harmful UV rays. While many flock to the beach each summer, I find comfort in the shaded confines of a daybed, far from the relentless sun. Elson recounts her beach outings with her husband, humorously detailing her meticulous preparations: an umbrella, sunscreen, a large shawl, a hat, and sunglasses. I resonate with her obsession for sun protection, often reapplying sunscreen relentlessly, especially after a recent trip through the humid South, where I discovered the dangers of burning through car windows.
My aversion to sun exposure is fortified by my experiences, and every opportunity to shield myself feels like an affirmation of my identity. The struggle is not just about physical appearance; it’s deeply intertwined with how I see beauty and health. Each application of sunscreen is a small act of rebellion against societal standards that privilege darkness over light. Beauty norms shift, yet a commitment to what makes me feel most comfortable remains steadfast. The fight against sun damage transcends vanity; it represents a deeper understanding of how to care for oneself.
Looking back, I realize that my quest for self-acceptance and protection from the sun has shaped my life in unique ways. Essences of both Baz Luhrmann’s wise words and Dr. Zamani’s scientific insights linger in my mind. Their messages weave together a narrative of embracing individuality while protecting our well-being. To some, tanning may represent confidence and beauty, while to others, like myself, choosing the paler path is a celebration of authenticity—finding strength in our skin, regardless of its hue.