9th July 2009

Her name was Zeta. She lived in my hometown, and my father knew her more than I did. From what I remember, she was pretty, you know, a real head-turner. Her hair was golden blonde, sun-kissed they would say. Her skin was the same. Regardless of season, she always looked like she’d just left the beach. The golden tan complimented her, and made her slender legs hypnotic. For years, I only knew her as the attractive woman my dad would, on occasion, talk to. If I was in the car with him, and he passed on her on the street, he’d open the window and shout something that would make her laugh. It wasn’t anything more than banter, cordial and innocent. Not that I minded because it allowed me to look at those long legs and exotic looks. A couple of years ago Zeta got skin cancer and died. It made the news after her parents began boycotting tanning salons, and encouraging people to not use sunbeds. Her advantage over those paler women had cost her life, and that was the story.
She died and left behind two young children. She died and left behind a loving family and friends. And why, so she could stand out in a crowd? So men would gawp and slow their cars, and women could look on in envy? She died because she used a sunbed every day for many many years. Zeta went through treatment, and probably fought that cancer with every bit of energy left in her. The news never showed her in the hospital bed, but I’m sure in those final days her skin colour was not sun-kissed. Like any tan, without continuous exposure to the sun, it fades. Its beauty is short-lived, but as Zeta realised, the consequences were permanent. I used a sunbed for a while. Not years. I would say it didn’t go further than six months, at best. But I have fair skin, and that, couple together with a few too many days under foreign skies, and a nasty bout of sunstroke when I was in my teens, I’m wondering if Zeta’s story will soon be my story.