I had always wanted a tattoo. Then the fall of 2000, I thought my dream had come true. I was wrong. It started when I had asked my father if I could get a tattoo. After long thought and debate, he said "yes." I was overjoyed. I couldn't believe it. I made the appointment at the local tattoo and piercing parlor, "In the Skin."
At A Glance Author 20th Century Boy Contact kick_my_ass22@hotmail.com Artist Cory Studio In the Skin Location Whitby, Ontario, Canada Being so naïve I hadn't done much research on the subject of these kinds of establishments. It seemed clean enough, and I could see a Bio-hazardous bucket in which, the piercer had put the needles in when he was finished. The studio was well kept, but in retrospect, I should have done more looking around.
We arrived, and I sat in the tattoo chair. As the large, and somewhat intimidating tattoo artist, named, "Bear," looked at me, I started having thoughts about what it was that made me choose this particular parlor.
I had already picked a design I saw on a T-shirt of my Dad's. It was Celtic cross. Being a descendant of Scotland, I could think of no better design, than one pertaining to my heritage. The tattoo artist and I talked for a minute and he asked me what my age was. I could have lied, but I didn't see the point. I replied, "I'm 15, sir." He looked at me and said, "Well, in that case, you can forget it." I was appalled. I didn't understand. I looked at him and said, "Even with my father's permission?" He quickly replied with, "I don't care, if he says you can get it, it's the fact of your skin isn't fully grown." The artist then decided to draw a diagram of the layers of skin. He told me that my skin wasn't fully-grown and that in a few years it could stretch. I almost started to cry. I didn't want to wait for another three or so years before I could get a tattoo. I was filled with anger and hate for that man. I couldn't believe him. He then decided to call my father in and explain to him what he had explained to me. I wanted to yell and kick and scream and put up the most horrific tantrum. I couldn't believe what was happening. However, I soon overcame my childish mood swing when he said he could pierce me with no problem. As I looked at my father with an evil grin, he said that I might as well get a piercing, because I had brought up the fact that I wanted my lip pierced earlier in the summer.
When I told the piercer that I wanted a lip piercing, he told me that I would be better off with a labret. Again, being naïve, I had no clue what on Earth he was talking about. When I decided to go through with it, he told me that he needed a few minutes to prepare. I could have sworn he was going to say that he needed a few minutes to come down from being under the influence of marijuana, but I didn't open my mouth. I kid you not; his eyes were the colour of rubies. This and this alone made me uneasy. I didn't care about the pain factor, or what my mother was going to say. I didn't think he was going to be capable of doing the piercing.
Instead of waiting inside the parlor, the tattoo artist offered to take us across the street for coffee. I accepted his offer, but if I had known he was going to run on about his past and present, I would have declined. As we sat in the coffee shop, he dragged on about this, that and any other thing he could think of talking about.
By the time, the piercer was ready; I had totally forgotten about what was about to go down. I was told to go in the back and sit in the piercing chair. Perhaps, if I knew what a piercing chair looked like, I wouldn't have sat on a stool that was right next to what I should have been sitting in.
I looked around at the art on the walls. Nothing special hung on the horribly painted décor, but a few "Lord of the Rings" posters.
The piercer came into the back and informed me I was sitting in the wrong place. Feeling embarrassed, I moved into the proper position. With him sitting in front of me, smelling heavily of cigarette smoke, I was almost sick. His bulgy eyes and stench were a little bit more than I could handle so I closed my eyes. I felt the needle go in, and come out. After a couple of seconds he told me I could go look in the mirror. As I looked at the not-so subtle piece of metal in the chin, I heard him tell me about after care instructions. I was too wrapped up in what had just happened to pay attention, so I had him repeat all of what he had said.
After that experience, I returned for one more piercing, but seeing as how my labret is slightly off centre, and my navel is crooked, I have vowed never to go back to In the Skin.