No Regrets: Tattoosday

When I was 19 I spent a week in Gulf Shores, Alabama, with Cat, Hey You Richardson (HYR from here on out), and this horrible girl with whom I have no idea why we were friends. We will just call her Jennifer…because that was her name. We were all relishing our first real vacation without grown-ups. Um, I mean we were all responsible adults looking forward to enjoying a quiet week of museums and nature walks. We drove there in my parents super cool, white, ‘95 Chrysler minivan. Somewhere around Jackson, Mississippi, someone suggested getting tattoos on our last day at the beach. I wish I could say I was not onboard…but I was. I spent the rest of the way down there sketching a pink ladybug on a dainty little daisy to be placed on my left big toe. The whole week we talked about our tattoos, and visited a local parlor to insure its cleanliness…and proximity to the beach. We had an awesome time and on the last night we piled into the van and drove to the tattoo parlor.

When we got there we spent a good hour going back through the books of pictures of their past work. There was this HUGE man behind the counter with gruesome skeletons, snakes and things all over his arms and thick neck. The artist was a stringy-haired, old woman (she was probably only like fifty-five, but decades of sun and smoke will do that to a gal) with animal and insect tattoos everywhere. She raised the frayed legs of her shorts and lifted her shirt up so we could see them all. She made us sign releases (that no one read) and had us pick our final choices.

Very quickly Cat was out because she had, as the lady said, “Peter poisoning” and it is unsafe to tattoo PG ladies apparently (I think Cat was relieved, she was never quite sold on the whole idea). Jennifer decided to get a purple daffodil on her ribcage. HYR opted for a blueish-greenish dragonfly on her lower-back, hippish area. They had the exact hot pink ladybug on a daisy that I wanted, but when I said that I wanted it on my big toe, the Cruella lookalike refused. She said that “toe tats” never look right and would not last long because the skin sloughs off so fast. She insisted that I pick another location. I decided on my lower stomach, and signed my release. Jennifer went first. I watched intently as the needle pop, pop, popped through her flesh. She clenched her teeth and never uttered a sound. The tattooed Cruella praised her and said, “that area hurts like hell, be proud girlfriend!”. HYR was up next. Her tattoo was only about the size of a half dollar. It was over in no time, and I think she would say that the worst part of the whole thing was having to lower the waist of her pants in front of snake/skeleton arms.

It was my turn. Jennifer and HYR were urging me on, saying how cute it would be, and how it would hardly hurt at all. Cat said nothing except that I had better be darn sure. She sat there all cute and newly pregnant, and I knew that I would be that way one day as well. I could just picture my belly swelling and growing. And my sweet little ladybug stretching and distorting. I saw my glorious pregnant belly with a giant hot pink roach on it. As I stood there dithering, praying for a way to get out of this after two of my friends had already gone through with this ultimate girl bonding moment, Cruella said, “I am not inking you. You just go home and play with some stickers little girl.” Embarrassed, relieved, chided, and overwhelmed with joy I walked out of that tattoo parlor with the soft sand on my feet, stars glittering overhead, and waves crashing nearby. I have never set foot in an “ink” shop again.

Both Jennifer and HYR went on to get further artwork done on their bodies. Jennifer quickly turned into a ink connoisseur and had several by the time we graduated. HYR got a lovely, if large, daylily on her back our Junior (maybe Senior?) year. Cat has never gotten one, and I promise you she has not been pregnant very much out of the last nine years. Sometimes I will see a tattoo that I kind of like, but never a ladybug. At the gym I will see a tattoo on an older woman and it always looks lame. I have no regrets that I remain uninked. It is just not me. Oh, and my belly? It has a giant pink stretch mark going right through that once dreamed of daisy patch.

Do you think these people regret their artwork yet? If not now, then soon, I am sure.

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