I'd love to say it came to me in a dream, but in truth it came to me in my son's favourite Dr Seuss book. It was perfect. It was literary, it represented my life, and it was small enough so that if the whole thing turned out to be a hideous mistake I could laser it off.
Unfortunately, I had no idea where to go. The only tattoo parlours I knew were in Kings Cross, patronised, I imagined, by criminals, drunken sailors and weapon-wielding gang members. Then one day, my friend Mandy pointed out a tattoo studio (note: studio, not parlour) just a suburb away. That afternoon, I checked it out.
“I want to get a tattoo,” I told the multi-pierced and tattooed receptionist.
“Wow, you are amazingly cutting edge and brave,” she said admiringly. Well, no, that’s just what I expected her to say. What she actually said (barely glancing up from her tofu burger) was “Yeah, okay. What day?”
I had no idea. When was a good day to brand myself? “Monday?” I asked.
She made an appointment. “Your tattoo artist will be Tong,” she told me. “His design folder is over there.”
Artist. Sounded reassuringly professional. I flipped through the folder. A purple dragon loomed at me from a hairy back. A blood red rose adorned a giant breast. I broke into a sweat and slammed the book shut.
“Great! See you Monday!” I said. If I turn up, I thought. It’s not like I’ve paid a deposit.
“You need to pay a deposit,” she told me.
It was the moment of truth. I was tempted to run, but I paid the money. The receptionist handed me an appointment card. “Read the instructions on the back.” I turned it over.
Care of Your New Tattoo: Leave bandage on for three hours.
Okay, sounds reasonable.
Wash with soap and water to remove dried blood.
Blood? There’ll be blood?
Do not pick scab. Let it fall off by itself.
Scab? Who said anything about a SCAB???
Okay, sounds reasonable.
Wash with soap and water to remove dried blood.
Blood? There’ll be blood?
Do not pick scab. Let it fall off by itself.
Scab? Who said anything about a SCAB???
On Monday, Mandy, my designated support person, met me at the studio. Inside, a young man with dreadlocks waited, while two heavily pierced girls inspected a range of nipple rings. I began to feel faint.
The receptionist asked me if I’d chosen my design. I sheepishly handed over the Dr Seuss book. To her credit, the receptionist barely flinched.
She made copies of the symbol in several different sizes, which Mandy and I considered with the utmost seriousness. In the end, we decided on the second smallest. The receptionist agreed, and - though I’d never met her in my life before and she had a studded lip - I felt strangely reassured.
After a 20 minute wait (during which I considered bolting about 20 times), Tong, my tattoo artist, appeared. I appraised him warily. He was a big teddy bear of a man, reasonably normal looking, except for a huge hole in his left earlobe, stretched by a massive earring. He also seemed to be mute, smiling benignly as he waved me through.
I felt alarmed at the prospect of entrusting one of my ankles to this silent stranger, but then I remembered the deposit, and followed, with Mandy close behind.
The tattooing room was clinical, with long black recliner chairs and cabinets of (what I desperately hoped was) sterile equipment. It was like a dentist’s surgery, only sado-masochistic.
I lay in a chair as Tong made a stencil of my design, and placed it on my ankle to determine the correct position. Suddenly I panicked.
“Tell me, Mandy!” I blurted. “It’s your last chance! Do you like it? Am I too old?”
“It’s great!” she assured me. I clutched her hand.
“Do it, Tong” I said.
Tong fired up his equipment (well, he switched on the needle). He looked very nonchalant, which worried me. Shouldn’t he be wearing an expression of intense concentration?
I heard a gentle buzz, felt a scratch on my ankle, and tensed, waiting for the shocking pain.
“When’s it going to hurt?” I asked Tong.
“This it!” he said.
It was nothing! Just like a sharp pencil being dragged across my skin. Okay, a very sharp pencil, but nothing dreadful. Uncomfortable, yes, but compared to the pain of childbirth (or, even worse, electrolysis) it was a walk in the park.
“Done!” Tong announced.
“Congratulations!” Mandy said.
I looked down. I had a tattoo!
Years down the track, I still love my tattoo. It makes me feel strong, sexy, and a little rebellious. In fact, I now have another, in a secret, sensual location (okay, on my shoulder).
Still, I’m constantly surprised that they don’t wash off. Just like having children, it’s the permanence you never quite get used to.
