Being an English Rose

Being an English rose, and by that I make no allusion to my beauty (or lack thereof) but simply to the fact that I am pale skinned and have a typical English rose complexion, is not easy regardless of which country you live in. In England we are ashamed of our pale complexions, "pale is interesting" is not something that has ever taken off no matter how much we would like to believe it! When I go back to the UK all I see is tanned beauties, albeit the tan has come from the local highstreet tanning centre or a bottle of St Tropez, but nonetheless the typical pale English skin has been duly covered up. In France, being blond haired and blue eyed is interesting and attractive. Another thing is that most women I see wear very little face makeup and, as they tan naturally, fake tan can be seen a mile off (or a kilometre away if we're going metric!) so I wouldn't dare to try and use fake tan for fear of being ridiculed. Therefore I see no point in hiding the fact that I'm pale, even on the beach. Yes I hear things like "Ah c'est les anglais" when I dare to get into a bikini and show myself on a beach. They seem to think I have just jumped off the ferry whereas I have been living here for near on 5 years and over several summers I have tried desperately to make my skin change colour, alas to no avail (it will go pink or red but never a hint of tan!). In fact, I'm rather impressed at the way French women live with their skin. Whatever their skin problem they do not try to cover it up. Having suffered acne during my teenage years and early twenties, I've always been used to troweling on the make-up, but in France I noticed that people are often very discreetly made up. If there is something you do notice on French women, it is a tendency to emphasise their eyes and their lips with eyeliner and lip-gloss or lipstick respectively. I find myself studying French women on the metro (discreetly of course because my Mother taught me it is rude to stare!) but I fail to see any evidence of foundation and in fact many of them are infuriatingly naturally beautiful. This is probably due to the vast range of skincare they have available to them as well as the fact that one can oh-so-easily go and see a dermatologist simply by calling and making an appointment and not have to be referred by your normal doctor. I went through the NHS system and did see a dermatologist for a while (I was on the god awful Roacutane!) but could only ever get an appointment every six months. During my teenage years I had always believed that I had greasy skin and therefore used every industrially strong anti-bacterial product I could find to disinfect my skin. The result of this was that after the Roaccutane and the acne, my nose and cheeks were still rather red. I usually put this down to sunburn, cold weather, warm weather, a cold, heyfever or any other excuse I could find. This was especially amusing when I taught because children have a charming fashion of lacking totally in tact.

One day when I had just finished class and was waiting until after playtime to take the other class I decided to sit down in the playground and enjoy the warm weather. I was very soon surrounded by some of the girls from my class who came to chat to me and show me how well they could skip. One of the girls sat up on window ledge behind where I was sitting and began playing with my hair. 'Vous êtes belle et vous avez les cheveux doux Miss Rose' (pronounced Miss Roz),
'Why thank you Claudia'
'Pourquoi votre nez est rouge par contre?'
There it was. Straight to the point.
'Well' I began 'probably because it is quite warm today' I said, reaching for the famous excuse.
'Moi mon nez n'est pas rouge' she said matter-of-factly
'Yes, you are lucky. But also we have different coloured skin' I said, rolling up a sleeve to show my pale bare arm.
'You have lovely brown skin because you are French, I have white, pinky skin because I am English'
'Donc votre nez est rouge parce que vous êtes anglaise' said Claudia, pleased with her conclusion.
I decided not to continue the discussion.

This blunt and direct way of talking does not restrict itself to the children. Whenever I decided to venture into places like Galerie Lafayette to check out the skin care range I usually got pounced on by one of the shop assistants. When I tried to explain to them in French what I was after they immediately start contradicting me and headed over to the green cream section saying that I have to put on a green base to counter the redness. The result of this is two things, one I would look like Shrek and two I would have to trowel on even more foundation to cover the green stuff! No thank you!

After having been in France for a while and having finally sorted out my medical insurance, I decided to go and see a Dermatologist to see if she could sort out my skin. She took one look at me and declared that I had sensitive skin, that I should be using only the gentlest of products and that the fact that my nose and cheeks were red was not because I was English but because I had rosacea. She sent me off to the nearest pharmacist with a list of skin friendly lotions that I ought to buy as well as a prescription. From that day on, my skin and I have been friends, and I threw away all the industrial strength anti-bacterial face wash and replaced it with soft cotton and cleansing lotion. My skin routine drastically changed. Thanks to the same dermatologist, I was also able to have access to laser treatment at a fairly reasonable price. Three sessions later and my skin was transformed. My foundation was subsequently thrown out. I could show my real skin in public once again. Yes, I would always be an English rose, yes my face flushes when I'm happy, when I'm angry, when I'm tipsy, when I'm embarrassed, in fact my face is still a barometer for my emotions, but I now take a leaf out of French womens' books and I let my real skin show. Pale and interesting? Pale and proud!