Oh, what will this year bring?

All Tatted Up

September 3, 2007 on 11:49 am | In Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Paul turned 18 in August and he just made the first big decision of his (semi) adult life. He got a tattoo.

He had talked about it for awhile, posing different ideas. The first one I heard about was Patrick Starfish, SpongeBob SquarePants dimwitted friend, on his right bicep. I reminded him that it’s possible that in 60 years, no one will remember who SpongeBob is, let alone his sidekick. Not to mention you don’t really want to advertise your lack of mental capacity on your arm.

His next idea involved a half-sleeve (from the elbow to the shoulder) filled with skulls, flames, and smoke. He thought that chicks would really dig that but I told him that it was more likely to scare them off. Well, scare most of them off and the ones who liked it, well, they’d probably be able to beat the crap out of him, not exactly the kind of girl he’d want.

He posed an idea about marijuana leaves, pipes, and smoke. As much as he insisted that he’s never having kids and even if he does, he’s not going to tell them not to do drugs, I told him to just trust me on this one: he’s wrong. A Dad with a pot tattoo has absolutely no credibility on most subjects, not just drug use.

I talked to him about getting something that really defines or explains him, something about the core of him that won’t change. His cousin has his initials on his wrists (his initials for his American name on one, and for his Korean name on the other). I told Paul those were good choices because those things would never change. The wrist tattoo was a good choice too because it wasn’t so big that it couldn’t be covered up.

It was about a week before he talked about a tattoo again.

“How about the word “Fury”?” he asked. “On my wrist,” he added. “With flames.”

“That sure sounds like you,” I said. Paul has an inner rage that he has learned to control but it has always been there. Even as a baby, he would become enraged at the limitations of his floppy body. When he was older but not yet able to control his rage, he’d fly into a state where he felt nothing and would run down the road, once in his socks, until his body tired and his anger had no place to roar. Now, I think people might be surprised to hear that he has such an internal hot point: he has better self-control than anyone, kid or adult, that I know. But the fury is still there.

 I asked him if he knew where to get a tattoo — I didn’t know much I knew that all tattoo parlors were not created equal. He said he didn’t, but he’d ask around. A few days later on my way into the gym, I followed a young man with a brightly ornate tattoo on the back of his calf. I asked him where he got it done. Love/Hate Tattoo on Alexander Street, he told me, but it’s only for custom designs. Everything is designed especially for you. No picking a tatt out of book.

I mentioned it to Paul when I got home, and that we’d be on Alexander Street for his eye doctor appointment in just a few days. I offered that we could stop by and check it, do some research.

I felt rather bare walking into Love/Hate Tattoo. I was used to feeling out of place as a middle-aged suburban Mom in places where middle-aged suburban Moms rarely go. But I was the only one without body art. And who didn’t desire it in the least.

Paul’s eyes were still bleary from the eye doctor’s drops, plus he couldn’t wear his contacts (he never wears his glasses, doesn’t even know where they are), but he could still see some of the pictures of the body art on the walls. I have to admit it was impressive. These were not simple black outlines of figures but full color and highly detailed. No two alike.

The woman who sat with us asked Paul what he wanted and he held out his arm as he described it.

“Cool scar!” she said, spying the healed-over gash that had required 62 stitches to close.

Paul beamed. He thinks his scar is pretty cool but not so many other people recognize its beauty.

She explained that they do not tattoo anyone under the age of 18, even with parental consent. No drunks, no one high on drugs — this is not the kind of place where you wake up the next morning wondering why you have “I <heart> Wanda” on your arm. All work is custom and requires a $50 deposit and an appointment (usually at least 2 weeks out although the owner is now booking a year in advance).

Paul and I looked around a bit more, asked a few more questions, then left. I wanted to make sure he took it all in and made his own decision, not acting on impluse. We were halfway home when he said, “That’s the place. I can just feel it. That’s the right place.”

The next day he asked if we could go back and make an appointment. He showed me his $50 dollars.

I knew he wanted to have his tatt for when school started but the first opening was the day before school started and I worried about it being tender and getting bumped in the hall. Then the woman booking the appointment noticed an uncharacteristic opening the next day. Paul took it.

As we approached the appointment, Paul appeared calm and collected. But just like the fury that rages under a serene cover, I knew that his coolness was a facade. As we waited for his artist, Adrian, to draw the image on tissue paper, Paul whispered to me, “I’ve never been so nervous in my entire life.”

“You can still back out,” I said. “It’s better to lose $50 than to have something on your arm you don’t want for the rest of your life.”

He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Hell no!” he said.

Adrian showed Paul the image he had drawn, the word “Fury” in script, then engulfed in flames. Paul nodded and took his place in the artist’s chair.

Adrian prepared his materials — the inks that he squeezed into tiny cups, the needle sealed in plastic looking like it belonged in a doctor’s office, and the tiny machine that he would use to apply ink to the arm via the needle. He shaved Paul’s lower arm, then sprinkled with fluid and pressed the tissue stencil to the skin. An imperfect pattern appeared but it was clear enough for an experienced tattooist to follow.

Loud heavy metal played in the background, the soundtrack of a tattoo. I chatted with Paul to distract him from the pain (he said it felt like thousands of bees stinging him), and we engaged Adrian in conversation too. Turns out he had gone to Fairport High School too and, after trying various things, had become an apprentice at a different tattoo shop. He came to Love/Hate because he wanted to learn more even though he’d been past the apprentice stage for 3 years.

It took about 30 minutes for Adrian to finish the tatt, first the outline, then filling in the red, then the yellow, then the orange. It mostly looked red and black but he assured Paul that the other colors would come up in the next day or two. He gave Paul instructions on how to care for it and what to expect.

It’s been 10 days since Paul got “all tatted up” as a popular rap goes. Everyday I ask him if he still likes it. Everyday he gives me the same response. Duh.

Pictures of Paul getting tatted up