Until Christmas, I hadn’t stepped into a tattoo shop. But when my friend said she was getting inked, I couldn’t resist a peek.
We sat in her car staring at the plain tattoo studio front. “Peep Show,” the sign said. I started to second-guess my enthusiasm for accompanying Kelti. Suddenly the door opened and a man stepped out.
He lit up a cigarette and looked in our direction. Amused.
“Okay,” I said. There was no going back. “Let’s go.”
We took a deep breath and walked into to the studio.
The man wore bleached jeans, a black knit hat over shoulder-length hair, and a t-shirt with a big skull printed on it. Tattoos covered his neck, arms and hands.
“Hello!” I said a little too cheerful.
“Hi, how are you?” he said. “You can take a look around and I’ll be in there soon.”
When I opened the door, the buzzing of the tattoo machine welcomed us. The smell of rubbing alcohol tinged the air and made my nose crinkle. Big posters with pictures of tattoo designs covered the walls. Framed pictures of painted women in provocative, tasteful poses hung about. Music played from somewhere in the shop.
Shortly after, “Little Dave” returned. He sat down at an organized desk and asked Kelti about her tattoo idea.
He wore glasses and was covered in earrings and piercings. His goatee was braided with little skull beads. I was surprised to see his clean, manicured hands and neat handwriting when he marked down Kelti’s appointment.
“He had a nice smile,” Kelti said afterwards.
***
The week before Christmas, Kelti finally got her tattoo. While a snow storm blustered outside, Little Dave disinfected Kelti’s right wrist. I sat next to her on a cushioned bench. To my left, Captain Jack Sparrow fought Barbossa on television. To my right, a glass cabinet displayed several action figure collectibles from horror movies.
Little Dave copied Kelti’s design on her wrist.
“Is that where you want it?” he asked.
Kelti nodded.
When he started up the tattoo machine, I was as excited as Kelti. The sound was intimidating. I watched Kelti’s expression as the needle stung her skin. She looked intense. Later she told me it didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected.
Suddenly a black screen replaced Captain Jack Sparrow and the tattoo machine stopped buzzing. Waiting for the power to come back, Little Dave told us about his first tattoo.
“I got it when I was seventeen. It’s a little skull on my hip, so I could hide it from my mum.”
He said tattoos are a way of self-expression, to show you’re different. Many of his tattoos don’t have a particular meaning to him.
“I just got what I liked.”
Half an hour later, the lights flickered back on. Before Little Dave finished Kelti’s tattoo, I thought about getting one myself. Could I say yes to something printed on me for the rest of my life? Would I be happy about an image I chose as a student with firm skin when I was 90 with wrinkles everywhere? And how would a tattoo affect my career?
The buzzing stopped again and Kelti’s skin was swollen. With a smile she thanked Little Dave. After wishing him a Merry Christmas, we stepped out on to the snow covered street.
Although my first visit to a tattoo parlour had been great, I’ll wait a couple years for my first tattoo. Maybe when I’m 80 or so. I guess I could live 10 years with a portrait of Captain Jack Sparrow on my arm.
