Lingbo gives herself skin cancer, or, tanning is fun.

Back in high school, I knew several things were true about the world:

• Ugg boots were an abomination to nature, and I would never wear them.
• Tanning was absurd, and the physical symbol of capitalism and industrialization. (Not that there is anything wrong with those.) Only Paris Hilton-wannabes would do such sick, frivolous things to themselves.
• I would never, ever, ever, ever get into Harvard.

Since then, I’ve gotten into Harvard, and as a consequence, realized that sheepskin boots are awfully comfy in snowdrifts.

But I still maintained my belief that tanning was ridiculous.

In Asia, fairness is associated with beauty. Whitening creams are a dime a dozen, and before/after photos turn dusky-skinned outcasts into milk-white, lumiscient beauties. My natural skin is neither rosy-fair, nor particularly tan, and I was fine with whatever color I happened to turn with the coming and going of the seasons.

But if you examine the taut bodies of pageant contestants, you’ll note that they are, without exception, kissed with bronze. That bronze may be natural or Mystic tan; it varies from being baked in the California rays to cooked in the confined space of a tanning bed. But the fact remains that in American beauty, darker hues are seen as the antithesis to wan sickliness, unathleticism, and frigid winters. To be tan is to be wealthy, skinny, and in good health. Bronze carries aspirations of Hamptons beachfront mansions and girls with coltish legs set off by tennis whites. Tan is rich. Tan is beautiful.

Which is how I ended up standing in Darque Tan on Huntington Ave, driven by a Groupon discount deal. The saleswoman really pushed some tanning cream on me (I realized later she was being a good salesperson and that cream is not necessary).

“Have you ever tanned before?” she asked me.

“No, never,” I admitted. I felt like a sickly impostor.

She then tried to sell me a $45 bottle of tanning cream to “accelerate and maintain” my tan.

I finally was suckered into buying a $15 mini bottle.

Tanning is very complex, with five “levels” of tanning based on strength, along with a spray tan option. She started me off on Level 3 at 11 minutes based on my propensity to burn. “The bed will start automatically in five minutes,” she said, pointing at the blinking red light on the wall. “If you want to start sooner, press the button. The radio is over there.”

I fumbled with my cream and affixed my safety eyegear. The bed suddenly turned on with the loud, insistent whir of fans and an eery blue glow. I clambered in and pulled down the top.

I immediately freaked out.

It was like being sucked into an alien space pod. All around me was a flourescent blue light. My depth perception had changed. Mild claustrophobia ensued.

I think most jarring of all was the whirring of the fans – like I was about to be sucked into a separate dimension, wearing my really scary protective mini-goggles. I took some photos and amused myself with how creepy I looked.

beam me up, scotty

After my initial fear subsided, I fiddled with the facial bulbs and fan strength. I relaxed. It was almost … fun.

The results? I noticed my tummy was a shade or two darker, and my face looked a bit irritated. After another day or two, plus another tanning session in a level 5 bed, the redness was replaced by a light coloring.

My stomach, however, really took to this tanning thing. After four sessions of tanning, it’s a dark caramel hue, like the rich roasted skin of a Thanksgiving turkey. After maxing out at 12 minutes in the Level 5 bed my final time tanning, I noticed I had gone a little too hardcore – my back had burned a bit.

What scares me most is that I actually enjoy the entire process now. There’s something relaxing about lying down, tuning out, and feeling the warmth of carcinogenic rays turning your skin into the color of privilege. Plus, the radio is set to Top 40 radio. Katy Perry sings for me.

I never wanted to succumb to Ugg boots. I felt deep unease at first about attending Harvard. Why did I have to enter into tanning?

At least I have a few more brain cells than Paris Hilton. I hope.

A Quest for Lovely Locks: stylist Gregory Wilde gives me highlights.

Hair is one of the most effective tools anyone has. You can curl it, straighten it, dye it any color of the rainbow, and even attach other people’s hair to your hair.

Since a good or bad haircut and totally change the shape of your face (I mean, no average, feminine woman looks great with a crew cut versus long, flowing waves) hairdressers are the guardians of female power. They wield scissors. They apply foils. They make you.

Since I’m going to be judged on appearance, I wanted to put the best head of hair forward.

So I entrusted my head of coarse, dark hair to Gregory Wilde at Salon 26 in the North End, who specializes in producing the kind of long, lustrous, flowing locks that Blake Lively-wannabes can only dream of. I expressed my lifelong desire to be blonde, and he said perhaps in the future, he could do some nice light caramel coloring. But for now, he made an executive decision to give me chocolate brown highlights.

a cute, subterranean salon in the North End, a stone's throw from great red sauce Italian.

I have a lot of leftover color on the tips of my hair from dying it red, and after methodically and expertly covering my head in foils, the color on the mismatched bottom now matched the top. Then he worked some more magic with some extra shine and blowing my hair out into soft, satiny silk.

not as scary as it looks, promise.

Finally, he finished off with a GHD iron and again, magically curled my hair into voluminous waves, sprayed it with some hairspray, ruffled it for some volume, and sent me on my merry way.

Thanks, Greg, for a great salon experience. Be sure to grab him for an appointment if you can!

Dude, I’m so stressed.

It’s really, really hard to be beautiful.

Let’s ignore so-called “natural beauty” for a second as a freakish genetic aberration  – which is its – since the confluence of genes and cultural values is not something any of us can control.

There are many kinds of beauty, and I’d argue that the beauty queen type of beauty is a pretty inhospitable one, an exaggerated, gay man’s ideal of womanhood. Different pageants also different ideals of beauty: Miss America doesn’t really look like Miss USA, for example.

The fact of the matter is, prepping for a beauty pageant is probably one of the most stressful, physically, and psychically demanding things I’ve done. Ok, so applying to college was more stressful, but it didn’t require the workout schedule or dieting, just a welling up of anxiety. The mundane nature of beauty pageant stress centers around a few things:

- Am I tan enough?
- Am I tall enough?
- Am I skinny enough?
- Am I pretty enough?
- Do I need better shoes?
- Should I shell out another $200 for colored contacts?
- Do I need a new dress?
- OMG I CAN HAZ WORLD PEACE?!

Thinking about such really inconsequential things is pretty taxing. So what if you have a paper due? You haven’t found the perfect pair of clear, 5 inch heels yet! (Just bought them, actually.) I have a sticky note on my computer with my chest-waist-hip measurements and approximate calorie counts of what I’ve eaten that day, along with reminders to myself in my inbox to buy superglue (broken earrings) and to go tanning. I still need a manicure. My heart tears up a bit every time I eat simple carbs. Etc.

I’ve been trying to do the two workouts a day routine, but this has proven pretty much impossible – I just don’t have any energy left over. On the plus side, that despicable practice of tanning has proven to pretty fun and effective at optically slimming the body. There’s just something about sitting a space pod bed of ultraviolet carcinogenic rays that is bizarrely calming and uplifting for the soul.

The first day of preliminaries is this Friday, so I only have to hold on for a few more days as I tie up loose ends. In the meantime, I’m exhausted! If you see me, feel free to give me a hug and give my stomach a poke – my abs have become a steel reserve.

Not all beautiful women are stupid

Commenter LindaW replied to my “Why I’m entering a beauty pageant” post with this:

Please don’t prejudge pageant contestants, especially Tracey. I can tell you, not only is she absolutely gorgeous in person, but she’s also one SMART woman. A native Mandarin speaker, she also speaks perfect English. She went to college on a full academic scholarship, worked on Wall St., and is now studying for her MBA at Columbia. She’s also ambitious: she’s working to become a financial journalist. With her looks and brains, she could be the next Maria Bartiromo – the Asian Money Honey!

I reread my post and realized that my abstract musings on my childhood insecurities sounded an awful lot like I was bashing pageants… which I’m not! My somewhat irrational desire to become a Barbie doll, brainlessness included, is not to suggest that beauty queens are airheaded – clearly, many are extremely accomplished in their own rights, beyond looking pretty and knowing how to walk in heels. The point I was trying to make is that I sometimes wish I could shut my brain off and just enjoy life, without overanalzying things.

In the words of Barbie herself, “Math is hard!” (Or in my life, “Linguistic response papers are tough!”)

The treadmill is going to eat me alive.

The food blogger’s guilt

I found myself last night hovering over a bowl of neon yellow, cake batter flavored ice cream. It was delicious, in an artificially sweetened, bizarrely colored, stale cake bit-infused goop kind of way.

This contrasted with my diet-approved dinner of spinach greens, tuna, an orange, and chicken breast.

I had wondered, back in the spring, what food blogging would mean combined with my type A sensibilities and brief aspirations of pageantry. As it turns out, nothing much really. The only thing that really changes is the conversations around my food and not so much the food itself (perhaps boding poorly for my chances). I just end up talking about my need to diet rather than dieting. I’ve never been one to deny myself anything. A little bit of cake can’t hurt! Sure, go for that extra bowl of soup!

And if you put something in front of me that I’ve never tried before, well, just hand me a bowl and spoon.

I had a great conversation over tea yesterday afternoon with Alison Cronin, the reigning Miss Massachusetts USA 2009 who is, contrary to any ditzy stereotypes about beauty queens, very friendly in an accessible, normal kind of way. She posssesed a wry, self-aware sense of humor and gave me a few great tips: speedwalking, wearing nude or clear shoes during the swimsuit competition, and figuring out my strong points.

As for her own diet and exercise regime before Miss USA, she describes it as a lot of light protein and veggies. “I ate a lot of sushi,” she said. “Sashimi.” And two hours of elliptical and speedwalking a day.

Well,  I can try.

Alison Cronin