My dad graduated high school outside of Los Angeles in 1971, the same year a bronzed Malibu Barbie premiered, beach-ready in a bathing suit and sunglasses. And Southern California, former home to both of my parents, was ground zero. It wasn’t only beautiful to be tan, it was an ode to the body and a challenge to conservatism. In the 50s and 60s, surf culture went mainstream and the tan hype got even more extreme. And Western civilization’s obsession with the tan was born. I grew up tanning alongside my parents who bought into the mass-marketed idea that there’s no beauty without bronze.Īs the legend goes, in the 1920s fashion icon Coco Chanel came back from a Mediterranean cruise with a dark tan and sent pop culture, which had pretty much always valued pale complexions, into a frenzy. When was the last time you asked yourself: Is it really worth the risk? So this one goes out to all you tanning fanatics who just can’t quit the habit. I got hooked on tanning because of a lack of education, but it persisted due to a stubborn avoidance, if not flat out rejection, of evidence-based facts.
And in the four years since, I’ve transitioned - unenthusiastically at times, I’ll admit - into a fully-reformed tanner. Which is what led me to book the aforementioned appointment with the dermatologist to have my many moles checked - the first in my adult life. At 23, I was finally beginning to understand that I alone was responsible for my health. But I was on the precipice of a larger shift in my mindset. That day, I was still too stubborn to admit my relationship with the sun was deeply troubling. I’d grown up surfing, immersed in the culture. I can’t remember what I said back, but I’m sure it was tempered with youthful arrogance.
#Video plus tanning skin#
“Your skin can’t handle the amount of sun you’re exposing it to,” he said. I’d been cautious of the sun but I still came back with stark tan lines, my freckled body nowhere near its normal pallor.Īt the end of the appointment, after I’d redressed, he looked at me with sympathy and exasperation. I was 23 and fresh off a three-month trip to Nicaragua where I’d been working as a surf instructor. He held one of my ankles with two hands, squinting closely at a mole on my calf. I was laying fully naked with my back against a cold metal exam table. “Your ancestors lived in dungeons,” the dermatologist said, without an inkling of humor. Health and wellness touch each of us differently.
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