I don’t know about you, but if I had a daughter with an auto immune disorder that attacked her skin cells and prevented them from making pigment, I wouldn’t look at her and say “Wow. You’re really pale.” This is what my mother said to me last week. I felt like Ricky Gervais in the Extra’s episode where he drowns his face in soup.
I called my sister to tell her about it and heard her get that Cary Grant look (Not unlike the Gervais look) before she broke out in wicked giggles. Then I felt bad because I know my mother hates when I make my sister break out in wicked giggles and because her comment really didn’t bother me. At all.
The thing is, I’m not that sensitive about it, but I feel like people should expect me to be and they should act accordingly. (Yes. Horrible, I know.)
Random hotel photo. My sunkissed look. Also rocking the hunchback look. Clearly.
I mentioned it to Flynn who shot back and urgent one-liner: “Are you an Albino???”
No. But if I didn’t take care you’d never know it. I’ve spent the last ten years out of the sun – no pigment to protect against skin cancer – and wearing Jackie O shades and Factor 85, even in the winter. I started dyeing my lashes and brows about 5 years ago, when they all turned white (Pigmentless skin means pigmentless hair. Apparently.) As for my head of hair, I’ve never let myself find out what’s going on there. I’ve been visiting the colourist since age 19 when the above mentioned Flynn told me, in no uncertain terms, that “Dishwater Blond” was not my look.
It’s 98degrees on this new street of mine. My neighbours are enjoying their patios and pools. I’m wearing cotton gloves and wide brimmed hats and wondering if I’ll ever learn how to work this pale but interesting look. My grandmother promises it will all be worth it when I’m 65 with fabulous skin. I’m gonna hold her to it.