Tatuaggio

My First Tattoo at 49

I never thought I was cool enough, or tough enough, to get a tattoo. Growing up as a minister’s kid, it wasn’t exactly an option. The most rebellious thing I did as a teenager was pierce my own ears. I swabbed my lobes with a cotton ball doused in rubbing alcohol. I numbed them with ice cubes, droplets of water sliding down my neck. I popped through my ear flesh with tiny heart-shaped studs I borrowed from my friend. My mom — a connoisseur of clip-ons — was not pleased.

In my twenties, I navigated life as an uptight, stressed-out lawyer, bopping around my law firm in monochromatic suits. I was all just-above-the-knee skirts and silk shell tops. At thirty, my twelve-year (college, then law school, then real life) relationship imploded in a fiery heap (mostly my fault). I left Virginia, moved to New York City, cried every day for a year, survived 9/11, and then, thankful to be alive, snapped out of my grief and began dating for the first time since, well, ever.

The first guy I dated had a tattoo on his shoulder of some sort of animal skull (a ram? a sheep? a goat?) against a backdrop that was supposed to be a moon but totally looked like a sombrero.

After a handful of first, sometimes second, dates, eventually I entered into a second long-term relationship with a tattoo-free Brit. Eight years later, he and I parted ways.

My intrigue with tattoos rekindled.

I met an Italian waiter with a tattoo of the Sicilian trinacria symbol on his shoulder: three legs bent at the knee, circling the head of Medusa, her hair writhing with serpents. He spoke rapid-fire dialect at me. I nodded, pretending to understand. Stared into the tattoo.

Tattoos of words captivated me. I met an Argentinian hairdresser with Survivor inked across his abs. Playing with my wine glass one evening, I mused to one of my girlfriends, “I wonder what hardship he survived.”

“Honey, that guy pointed to the wall of a tattoo shop and said, Gimme that.” She — of the lovely six-inch tribal tattoo trailing across her lower back — knew hardship and survival, and was skeptical.

On the rare occasions I ventured out with friends to music venues or clubs and the bouncers stamped the inside of my wrist with glow-in-the-dark ink, I liked the way it looked on my skin when I awoke the next morning. I let it linger as long as possible until showers washed the mark away.

My rescue dog Rowan passed away of old age. I pondered a tattoo of her name on my wrist. I played with fonts. I drew letters on my own skin. I chickened out.

I started taking boxing lessons. I tried really hard not to fixate on my coach’s punch-sculpted arms covered in sleeve tattoos: creatures, flowers, words. The words, a scripture, he told me, were his first tattoo.

I flew to San Francisco on a business trip. Took a long walk and ambled into a bookstore on Market Street called The Green Arcade. Bought tattoo artist Ed Hardy’s memoir, Wear Your Dreams: My Life in Tattoos (co-authored by Joel Selvin). As I read his vivid descriptions of needles penetrating skin, I wondered, Could I handle the pain?

Later, I bought a picture book, Pen & Ink: Tattoos & The Stories Behind Them, by Isaac Fitzgerald and Wendy MacNaughton.

I daydreamed about word tattoos. If I got one word, what would it be?

I flew to Australia for work. Daily, I walked the coastal trail between Bondi Beach and Coogee Beach. I stopped at a sign that described the origin of the word bondi. It’s an Aboriginal word that means “noise made by the sea waves breaking on the beach.” I liked that the word had five letters and ended with an “i,” like my name. I’d been listening to a U2 song, Every Breaking Wave, on repeat. Bono sang, It’s hard to listen while you preach. At night, I Googled “reputable tattoo shops in Bondi Beach.” I read the Yelp reviews. I chickened out.

Back in New York, over drinks with my best friend, I asked him how long it took to get his wrist-to-elbow sleeve tattoo.

“I went every weekend for six months,” he said.

I started following local Brooklyn tattoo artists and shops on Instagram. I discovered an all-female studio. Began taking screen shots of work that I liked. Fine-line phrases in cool cursive fonts…delicate yet tough tulips, my favorite flower…a forkful of angel hair pasta. One tattoo artist showed up in my saved photos a lot. Jessica Valentine. I liked the way she captured her work and linked it to her clients’ vision: “Medusa for Julia’s first tattoo…”

Eleven months after my first trip to Australia, never expecting to return so soon, I landed in Sydney again, combining a work trip with two U2 shows. (Yes, I need a U2intervention). On my morning walks along the coastal Bondi to Coogee path, I smelled the smoke from the bush fires raging.

Once I was back home, I saw that Jessica had posted Australia-themed tattoo “flash” on Instagram — koalas, kangaroos, boomerangs — announcing she would contribute all the proceeds from the following weekend’s tattoos to Australia bush fire relief efforts. Deciding it was some sort of sign from the universe, I booked an appointment for a “micro tattoo” through her website, providing my credit card information.

Two gentle yet firm reminders about her 24-hour cancellation policy graced my inbox. I didn’t cancel.

I Googled directions to the address she provided for her Haven Studio in Brooklyn. A twenty-minute walk from my apartment. I popped two Advil and put on my sunglasses. You’re doing this. I crossed four avenues, cut through a park, turned down a side street, and found a chalkboard pointing toward a grey door. I followed the directions Jessica had emailed to me: “Go up the creepy staircase to the black door on your left.”

The nerd in me was a solid ten minutes early. My heart banged against my ribcage. I heard muffled female voices behind the studio door. I knocked. The door opened. Two French bulldogs greeted me. A strikingly cool woman introduced herself. Jessica. Matte purple lipstick. Black eyeliner. Combat boots. Ripped black jeans. Tattoos on her neck, hands, skin showing through the rips in the jeans. Another beautiful woman in tights and cutoff jeans shorts, a dark bra showing through a white t-shirt, moved silently from couch to chair. My face flushed. I immediately felt like a complete dork in my Muhammad Ali sweatshirt and Lululemon joggers.

You’re cool too, in your own way. You’re about to get a tattoo. So just stop it.

The one-room studio was bright and cheerful. David Bowie candles on a mantle. Emblems of female power draping pedestals and picture frames. Colorful pillows on a comfy couch. Two tattoo tables near the windows. Shelves of technicolor ink. Jessica started talking to her fiancée — Cameron — about Tina Fey. Holding up an iPhone, Cameron enthusiastically reported that an art gallery had featured her latest art on its Instagram feed.

I signed consent forms on an iPad and snapped a photo of my identification. Jessica’s friendly demeanor, her banter with Cameron, a dog hopping into my lap, the artsy music…calmed me.

“So, you want the word bondi, right?” Jessica asked. I had described my tattoo idea in the website intake form.

“Yes. It’s my first one, so I want a little one to make sure I can handle it. Lowercase letters, in a feminine, girly font.”

She showed me different handwriting fonts on her iPad, encouraging me to narrow my preferences to a few. She played around with the curl in the “b,” the loop in the “d,” the dot in the “i.” We made the word slightly bigger, then smaller, then bigger again. Cameron printed it on a stencil. I pet one of the Frenchies and thought of my dog Rowan. I tried not to watch Jessica prep her equipment. I’m not exactly great with blood. Or needles.

“Where on your body would you like your word?” she asked.

I walked toward a full-length mirror near the tattoo table. Lifted up my sweatshirt and t-shirt and ran my thumb along my upper ribs on my right side.

“I’m thinking, here.” I stared at my pale, freckly torso. “Eventually, I really want a much longer piece, a bigger one, more involved. Lyrics from a song that I love. But I need to make sure I can handle this first. My stomach, my abs, are my least favorite part of my body.”

My face flushed redder.

“I just have this ugly, blotchy scar or mark right here.” I touched lower down the right side of my stomach. “What do you think? This is probably a dumb question but would it hurt less if I did it below my ribs rather than on my ribs?”

Jessica took the stencil from Cameron, and like a consummate pro, guided me through my angst. She looked at me in the mirror.

“When you mentioned the ultimate longer tattoo, you instinctively touched your left side. So, I think we save that space for that. Let’s do the little bondi on your upper right-side ribs. It will at most take five minutes. I’ll start with the dot above the ‘i.’ And then I’ll just go in and out with the needle, one letter at a time.”

I exhaled. She quickly shaved my upper rib area and placed the stencil on my skin. Even the stencil looked cool. I lay down on one of the tables, my sweatshirt pulled up. She instructed me to put my right arm behind my head.

“Ok, I’m just going to do the dot over the ‘i’ first, alright?” she repeated, and then talked to Cameron about a song. I heard the buzz of the needle. I felt a pinch but it didn’t hurt.

“Good?”

“Yep.” I closed my eyes and breathed. It seemed like only an instant before she said, “Okay, I just need to do the ‘b’ and then we’re done.”

The buzz stopped. I felt her wipe my skin. She placed a “second skin” film over the wound and said it was okay for me to stand up.

I stood in front of the mirror. So completely cool. “I totally love it.”

Jessica sat down on the couch and pet the dogs while Cameron handled payment and gratuity. I asked whether the pieces of art for sale in a crate near the desk were Cameron’s. They were. I bought one: a black skull hovering above a woman with dark hair lying on the ground.

I began babbling.

“Thank you both so much. You made this whole experience so not scary. Now I want another one. I’m sorry I’m talking so much. I never talk this much.”

“You’re going to feel a major adrenalin rush,” Jessica explained. “I’m literally covered in tattoos and I still get nervous before each one. And then a huge rush afterwards.”

I profusely thanked them both again, clutched my art, and nearly galloped home, back through the park. I stopped into a store to buy wine and a candle; the label said “Bondi Beach.”

For the next week, every time I went into the bathroom — at home, at work, at a restaurant — I hiked up my shirt and marveled at my new, amazing, tiny word. And then began plotting my next one.

In the past, whenever I had floated the idea of getting a tattoo to girlfriends, one inevitably said, “Well just don’t get something cliché like a U2 lyric. You’ll totally regret it when you’re 85.”

Whatever.

For two years, I’ve been envisioning a tattoo of twelve words from the lyrics to U2’s song, Bad. But in Italian. In fine-line handwriting font.

Using a website Jessica recommended, I surveyed hundreds of handwriting fonts. I narrowed my choices to two, and then used Google Translate to Italianize the lyrics. Each melancholy word of the song became lovelier written in Italian. Separation became separazione. Desolation became desolazione. Let it go became lasciarlo andare. I didn’t like how isolation turned into isolamento. So, I changed it to solitudine. My tattoo, my translation. I mean, the chances of anyone seeing this thing anytime soon, understanding Italian, and knowing U2 lyrics were a big fat zero.

I booked another appointment through Jessica’s website, this time for a “small tattoo.” I sent her the translation and the fonts but explained that I wanted each p to be loopier and the dots on each i to look like the pen dragged and lingered a bit.

Three-and-a-half weeks after my bondi tattoo, I retraced my steps to the studio. When I arrived, I said hi to Jessica, Cameron, and the Frenchies. Another female tattooer was collaborating with a client on a tattoo design: a provocative peach. Jessica worked on the stencil for my lyrics. Her relaxed interchange with Cameron about her own recent trip to Australia soothed my nerves as I tried to calculate how many minutes longer this tattoo would take than my last one. Reading my mind, Jessica told Cameron, “Hey, please ask the next client to come early. This one should only take twenty minutes. And then we can go eat.”

She placed the stencil on my lower left-side abs — five lines of text, just above my hip bone. I climbed onto the table, placed my left arm behind my head, and closed my eyes.

Jessica talked and joked with the three other girls as she worked. “Doing okay?” she asked me every other minute or so. Then wiped my skin, and continued. Some of the individual letters of my words hurt. A small but seemingly deep slice, a flash of pain, but then instant dissipation. Other letters didn’t hurt at all. She let me know when we were halfway done. And when we had one line to go. Then, I heard the buzz of the equipment stop. She wiped my skin, telling Cameron they needed to order the other soap she liked better. I felt her place a larger piece of “second skin” film onto my abs. I opened my clenched eyes.

I stood and looked into the mirror, my t-shirt bunched up into my pink bra.

“Look at you, badass, with a big ol’ belly tattoo,” Jessica validated, standing next to me.

I felt badass.

“You are very good at your job,” I said.

I paid, tipped, said goodbye, and strutted out of there.

Since then, I have viewed my body completely differently. My abs and stomach used to be my least favorite body parts. I hated that, no matter how much I ate right, avoided the pasta that I love, and worked out — running, boxing, lifting weights, literally 6 or 7 days a week — I could never get a flat stomach. My ex always made fun of my belly. I outright refuse to take beach photos or wear midriff t-shirts at the gym. I also really hated the fist-sized blotchy mark on my stomach; I don’t remember any injury that would have caused such a scar.

But, ever since I got the tattoos, I love my abs. All I see is exquisite handwriting on my skin. The blotchy scar faded into a mere shadow. I no longer see fat or flab. I see developed muscle from the miles I run, the shadowboxing, the sit-ups, the weightlifting. My weight, body mass, and curves are exactly the same as before. I don’t weigh a single pound less than I did before the tattoos. But my perception of my physique has completely transformed.

To be honest, I knew deep-down I was badass before the tattoos. I survived two devastating breakups of long-term relationships with guys I deeply loved, with 9/11 sandwiched between them. I quit three high-paying toxic jobs where I had bullies for bosses. Out of nothing, I have built a career I love with tons of creative freedom and financial security. I travel the world alone, almost whenever I feel like it. I go to a ridiculous number of U2 concerts. I write openly about unpretty truths and vulnerabilities. I take boxing lessons and feel like a “real” fighter. All of this was true before the tattoos. But with this ink came added power.

My student, Cohl Love, gifted me a book of his poetry over the holidays. In a poem called Paint My Heart, he wrote: I don’t run off blood, but off of ink. As I lay on Jessica’s table, and she painted ink into my blood twice, I felt something shift in me.

Seven weeks after I got my big bad belly tattoo, I turned fifty. I had planned to celebrate the milestone by a solo trip to Rome, then dinner in New York with my close friends and a burlesque show by a troupe called Company XIV. Instead, our coronavirus lockdown happened. My trip obviously was canceled. I spent my birthday self-isolating but teaching online, exercising in my kitchen, drinking my favorite Spanish wine in a Zoom birthday happy hour with my friends, and then dancing solo like a lunatic in my living room to a two-hour YouTube video of a U2 show I had attended in Berlin. Besides Jessica, no one in else in the world has seen or even knows about the second tattoo, unless and until they read this. Every day, I see it, touch it, and know that I can handle anything.

I’m grateful to Jessica, her artistry, the creative and welcoming space that she has cultivated for all in her studio, and the time she took to really listen to me without judgment — to the words that held such meaning to me, my vision for the visual aesthetic of the handwriting, the placement on my body, my self-consciousness, and my obvious fear. She took it all in and handed it back to me in gifts I will treasure the rest of my life: these words etched into my skin, but more importantly, a fierce new love for myself that I have never felt before.

When our lockdown ends, I can’t wait to do my part to help her business reboot. Maybe with some new ink of my own. Non sangue ma inchiostro.