Mirror, Mirror, on the wall...

… who is the fairest of them all?

Well if by “fair” you mean white, translucent, or snowy, I think, especially in my present context, that I fit the bill, win the prize, take the cake… you get the picture.

Unlike California – where summer is indicative of shed clothing and laying-out or tanning sessions, all to achieve that perfect, make-your-teeth-look-glow-in-the-dark tone – India’s darker skinned population equates lightness with perfection. So instead of bikinis you’ve got elbow length gloves; instead of tanning beds, broad brimmed hats; instead of lounging in the sun, umbrella covered forays to the great outdoors; and finally, instead of tanning oils, a whole line of lightening & whitening skin products.

In fact, any product remotely related to skin care – from acne cream to hand lotion – has a proud “whitening product” stamp emblazoned on the side. Aside from causing me to take note of the ironic cultural differences, recall mum’s childhood maxims about the grass always being greener on the other side, and momentarily rehas soul-ish questions about the true nature of beauty, I hadn’t really taken much notice of said products.

But the other day during a routine trip to the local market, I spotted a new product. An herbal facemask. In my sweaty, dirty state I was intrigued. A face-mask; sort of a skin self-help, if you will. Acknowledging the product’s purported whitening tendencies, the thoughts flittering through my head were along the lines of, “how could I get any whiter? It certainly can’t do me any harm…” Plunk went the rupees 50 and my fate was sealed.

What ensued was lesson #1,327 of life in India. I’ll bypass the multiple lessons learned from trying to use a drying, peeling product in 100+ heat with no electricity (read: lots of sweat) and get right to the primary revelation: I can’t get any whiter, but I can get redder.

The genius plot to lighten skin – at least in the case of this product – was to painfully peal layer upon layer off. Perhaps it works for some people. In my case the desired pearly affect was eradicated by the nubbins of blood dotting my face and nose. Piqued, I’m sure, by the painful pull, my skin rebelled and turned a rosy, someone-just-slapped-me red. And I have yet to discover a culture that gives red the foremost place in its skin beauty rubric.

Since the beaches of California and horsemanship summers at Ironwood had previously instilled in me a similar lesson, namely, I can’t get any darker, but I can get redder, I feel I’ve effectively covered my bases in lessons learned about my personal skin color.

There really is nowhere for me to go but "redder".