Spray Tan Quotes

New Rule: Stop asking Miss USA contestants if they believe in evolution. It’s not their field. It’s like asking Stephen Hawking if he believes in hair scrunchies. Here’s what they know about: spray tans, fake boobs and baton twirling. Here’s what they don’t know about: everything else. If I cared about the uninformed opinions of some ditsy beauty queen, I’d join the Tea Party.

Instantly, her eyes widen into caramel marbles, and her face pales about five shades lighter. I’m ready to squirt some spray tan lotion on her if it means she doesn’t make it so damn obvious that she’s not happy to see me.

What happened to your face?" "What happened to yours?" I retorted. "You look like a damn Oompa Loompa. You should lay off the spray tanning, Lea.

He looks me up and down blankly. 'So. No Speedos?' 'I left them in my other bag with my muscle shirts and tanning spray. You?

I've been asking around to find out what girls are into," Eugene tells me, really pleased with himself. "So I'm gonna get a spray tan and make red-velvet cupcakes.

I was blessed with suck in the form of the traditional Snow White coloring: skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as coal. In the cartoons and the storybooks, they make it look almost cute. Of course, when artists and animators design a Snow White, they essentially give their incarnation of my story a spray tan and some neutral lip liner. A true seven-oh-nine was nowhere near as marketable as those animated darlings. We’re too pale, and our lips are too red, and we look like something out of a horror movie that didn’t have the decency to stay on the screen.

As I contemplated these happy possibilities, we wound our way through the Pasadena Valley. "I never liked this city," I murmured. "It makes me think of game shows, tawdry parades and drunk washed-up starlets with spray-on tans." Piper coughed. "FYI, Jason's mom was from here. She died here, in a car accident." "I'm sorry. What did she do?" "She was a drunk washed-up starlet with a spray-on tan." "Ah." I waited for the sting of embarrassment to fade. It took several miles.

She came through the door the moment my beer arrived. Fortyish, salon-blonde, spray tan, fake boobs and real diamonds. Anywhere else it would be a bimbo alert, but in Florida it was just protective coloration.

Her eyes--lined with black makeup--stared blankly at the ceiling; and her tan was obviously sprayed on since her skin had a healthy apricot glow even though the top of her head was missing.

They powdered their wigs, too. One could choke on the arsnenic and talcum. I can't imagine it was good for the lungs of living, but one does what one must for fashion. At least the women weren't tottering around on five-inch heels, constantly in peril of berking bones." He paused a moment, then said, "What made it easier for vampires was that we lived by candlelight, lamplight - it makes everyone look healthier, even the sick. The harsh lights you favour now...well. Difficult. I heard that a few vampires have taken to those spray-tanning salons, to get the proper skin tones." -Myrnin

We spent afternoons kicking around in the sand, picking through the seaweed for shells, making headdresses of washed-up fishing ropes and hats from Styrofoam cups. Beach rats, we were called. We stopped brushing our hair, and it hung in tangles spun by the salt air. We sprayed Sun-In across our heads and let it turn our hair orange in patches. Our skin peeled, and we didn't much care. We woke up to the feel of sand in our sheets. We covered ourselves in baby oil and iodine and let the sun bake our skin. We smelled like Love's Baby Soft perfume, like summer all year long. We were tanned, with freckles across our noses.

Melinda was still stuck on the 24 thing. “And I don’t see you grabbing the remote away from me when that countdown clock starts chiming,” she said to Pete. “Unless it’s to get a quick check of the scores on Monday nights.” Nick’s ears perked up at the mention of scores. Sports. Now there was a topic upon which he could wax poetic. “Too bad Monday night football is over,” he lamented to Pete. “But there’s always basketball. Who are you eying for the Final Four?” Pete looked mildly embarrassed as he gestured to Melinda. “She’s, um, referring to the scores on Dancing with the Stars.” “He likes it when they do the paso doblé,” Melinda threw in. “The dance symbolizes the drama, artistry, and passion of a bullfight. It’s quite masculine,” Pete said. “Except for the sequins and spray tans,” Melinda added. Pete clapped his hands together, ignoring this. “How about you, Nick? Are you a fan of the reality television performing arts?

NOTHING was as discouraging as seeing the buff guy in the kilt coming toward me along the top of that hotel bar. His skin was spray-tanned to a shade of orange that matched the leather of his sporran. He’d leapt onto the bar like it was nothing, and strode the full length in a cloud of baby oil scent so thick it even cut through the smell of beer in the air. He wore nothing but a tiny kilt that I’m quite sure no self-respecting Scotsman would blow his nose into, and a plaid tam atop a vivid orange wig. I think my heart broke a little at the sight of that wig. The stripper pranced down the bar, jig-stepping over glasses to the sound of an electro-bagpipe drone.

She was very pretty, with fine Roman features and the kind of olive skin you couldn’t get from a tanning bed or spray booth. She had dark, thick hair, lush, but not quite full lips, and the body of a runway model. I noted this all in a sort of detached, clinical manner, because it distracted me from the topic of discussion.

I'd adapted my own regimen of upkeep, trying to keep myself seventeen forever: at first begrudgingly, then with increasing panic as the years began to carve lines into my face, loosen my skin. It started with a weekly manicure... Add to that a monthly waxing appointment-- eyebrows, upper lip, underarms, bikini line, legs... When I was twenty-eight, I conceded to Botox... The lasers, I think, began at thirty, zapping the broken blood vessels around my nose, tightening the falling cheeks. The makeup went from a quick swipe of mascara to a full face of foundation, concealer, eyeliner... My air-dried hair was subjected to a weekly blowout, then a twice weekly one, which was when I finally understood the point of shower caps. They never did get me to spray-tan, though. I remain proud of that.

Later that afternoon, the mistral was blowing hard over Marseille, a hot slap that deposited the Mediterranean ocean spray onto tanned faces. Sharko and Lucie walked down the Canebière, patched sunglasses and shoulder bag for him, small backpack for her. At that time of day and year, it was impossible to approach the Old Port in a car because of the mass of tourists. The sidewalk cafés were overflowing, faces and yachts paraded by, the atmosphere was festive.

Calling MacKenzie a mean girl is an understatement. She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

But this obsession with the most minor activities of our everyday life means that they function as a kind of highly charged political battleground. The result is that struggles are no longer fought over political ideologies. Instead, the politics we become passionately invested in are those that are closely related to our habits and bodies. Indeed we become deeply interested in what some have called ‘bio-politics’ (Foucault, 1978). Broadly put, this involves political contestation focusing on life itself (Esposito, 2008). This means political struggles take place around the most basic aspects such as bodily health and lifestyle. No big ideas here. The pressing political questions are no longer your position on patriarchy – it is how many burgers you ate this month or where you stand on spray-tanning. The increasing importance of this kind of bio-politics can be seen in the fact that many contemporary political movements today are focused on quotidian issues close to the body such as health, food and lifestyle. And one of the central demands which is often bound up with these bio-political movements is a demand for authenticity – real food, real wine, real music and the ability to live a real life which is not artificially clouded by various in-authenticities.

Holy hell, the Grim Reaper was no makeup artist; that was for sure. Even Goths had better complexions. “Hey, don’t be harshing on my peeps,” Adrian cut in. “I’d do one of us way before some SoCal bimbo with plastic melons and a spray tan.” “Stop reading my mind, motherfucker. And you’d do the bimbo anyway.” Adrian grinned and flexed his heavy arms. “Yeah. I would. And her sister.

Club Kyiv’s “exclusive” clientele seemed to consist of young rich kids intermingled with overweight businessmen in suits and gold-digging prostitutes. Bishop couldn’t tell the difference between the working girls and the women there simply for a good time. To him they all looked the same, and he had never seen so many fake breasts, collagen-enhanced lips, hair extensions, and spray tans in one spot before. These girls wore the shortest skirts he had ever seen. How the hell do they stay warm showing that much skin, he wondered. They looked ridiculous in their winter coats with skinny bare legs protruding beneath them. Like ostriches, he realized with a smile.

A weathered black and silver Dodge pickup towing a small motorboat pulled up behind us, and Alex circled back to greet the driver. I couldn’t see who sat behind the crusted and dirty windshield, but Alex stood at the driver’s window and pointed down the block where the boulevard disappeared into floodwater. The truck pulled ahead, maneuvered a deft U-turn, and backed toward the water. Alex motioned for me to follow. By the time I lurched my way to the truck, he and the pickup driver were sliding the boat down the trailer ramp. Sweat trickled down my neck, and if I hadn’t been afraid of being poisoned by toxic sludge, I’d have made like a pig and wallowed in the mud to cool off. I kicked at a fire hydrant, trying to jolt some of the heaviest sludge off my boots, and heard a soft laugh behind me. With a final kick that sent a spray of brown gunk flying, I turned to see what was so funny. I needed a laugh. A man leaned against the side of the pickup with his arms crossed. He was a few inches shorter than Alex, maybe just shy of six feet, with sun-streaked blond hair that reached his collar and a sleeveless blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. His tanned legs between the bottom of the shorts and the top of sturdy black shrimp boots were scored with scars, bad ones, as if whatever made them meant to do serious damage. He’d been grinning when I turned around, flashing a heart-stopping set of dimples, but when he saw my eyes linger on his legs, the grin eased into something more wary.

The world, it seems, does not much care anymore if you are an Eagle Scout, or even a Tenderfoot. It's all about how many "followers" you have, the perfection of your spray-tanned abs; whether you had the genius to sell a start-up company that hasn't produced a single viable product.

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Ronald Teach was sporting a spray tan that reminded Phineas of those creepy dwarves from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Even with enormous sunglasses and a hoodie pulled over his head, she'd recognize that swoop of dark hair anywhere. And he'd either had time for a spray tan, or the warmth from the sun was hitting him just right to make his skin look as golden as the top of a crème brûlée. She squinted, and he had the nerve to smile back. She wasn't going to let him get her flustered, especially not at her own restaurant. Though how was it possible that he managed to fill out a hoodie this well? Like, who has muscles underneath bulky fabric? Leo did, because, of course, he'd be that guy.

She reminds me of my old self—the amount of work it took: the manicures and the spray tans and the designer dresses and shoes—just to look “presentable” for a job at a country lifestyle magazine that was mostly coupons,

She was a drunk washed-up starlet with a spray-on tan.

Like her, they’d been raised on YouTube and swipe-right screens. On every billboard and music video, there was the unattainable fantasy, curated personalities, skin smooth and shiny, glammed up and spray-tanned, and she knew it was all fake, a media creation or whatever, but it was still effective, still teasing some high-school not-belonging part of her. That was even more infuriating: to know it was a lie but to want to believe in it anyway. To

The Italian king of the dance floor has a deep-mahogany spray tan, shiny slicked-back hair and the most dazzlingly white teeth you ever did see.

She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

Then someone would have to escort your spray-tanned ass outside to have a very frank discussion about attitudes toward women in the workplace. And afterwards, someone would have to drive said spray-tanned ass to the hospital, and someone doesn’t have time for that right now. Besides, blood is bad for the car upholstery. Understand?

It’s no coincidence that the women who spray perfume all over themselves are always the ones with an orange tan too. I put it down to the fact that all the CFC gases they pump out burn up the ozone above their heads, so the sun tans them the most. Obvious, innit.

$460 billion is more than the gross domestic product of 167 nations.17 What does this mean? Well, it means we are collectively spending more on lipstick, shampoo, and tanning spray than the entire economic infrastructure of three-fourths of the planet’s countries. It also means if we all stopped buying beauty supplies, let’s say… tomorrow, we would not only collapse the BSPC; we would tank the global economy.

Faking your confidence is powerful. That kind of investment in yourself that’s made when you take action (even though you are quaking inside) will boost your confidence and your attractiveness in ways that no cropped-just-right Match.com photo, spray tan, or teeth whitener ever could.

The misleading depiction of Jesus as warrior, man's man—as unsympathetic, lonely, and harsh was always a caricature. That White Jesus is always eventually exposed as a straw man, an Oz shouting behind the curtain, a president reliant on spray tan and tax fraud. Jesus as he was and is offers something much more powerful and relatable.

I check my email. Once more, nothing from my brother Hayden. My nearly empty glass follows me to my bedroom, and I lie there, half asleep, half woozy from too much alcohol. I run my hand through my hair. I’m back on the Walla Walla. The images are fuzzy, like an old VHS tape. Hayden is asleep, and I gently lift him away, deeper into a nest of paper towels. I turn in the dim light of the ferry bathroom and hold up my hair with one hand. I reach for the scissors and start cutting. Locks fall like autumn leaves over the dingy countertop and into the bottom of the pitted white sink. I cut, and I cut. Tears roll down my cheeks, but I don’t make a sound. I open a box of dye and apply it with the thin plastic gloves that come in the box. I smell the chemicals as my hair eclipses from brown to blond. I rinse in the sink, the acrid odor wafting through the still air of the bathroom. I tear a ream of paper towels to wring out the water and then, in what I think is a brilliant move, I turn on the hand dryer and rotate my head against the hot spray of air. I am in Maui. I am in Tahiti. I’m on the beach and I have a tan. A handsome boy looks at me and I smile. The dryer stops, and I look in the mirror and I see her. Mom. I look just like my mother. It was unintended genius. Hayden, now awake, seems to agree. “I miss Mom. Do you think they found Dad?” I indicate the second box of hair dye. “Your turn, Hayden.” He climbs up on the counter and lays his head in the sink as I wet his hair with lukewarm water. It reminds me of when he was a baby and Mom washed him in the sink instead of the tub. He scrunches his eyes shut as I rub in the dye. When I’m done, he will be transformed. He’ll no longer be the little boy with the shock of blond hair, the one that makes him look like he’s stepped out of the page of a cute kids’ clothing website. I look down at the name on the dye box.

I CATCH A WHIFF OF BURNING toast and dog piss—the unmistakable smell of my spray tan. I wonder if Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson caught a whiff of it too. Even if he can smell it, he doesn’t let on. Bless him.