This was written as a school paper, so please excuse the formality of it. Anywho...
At A Glance Author Sarah Contact Sarah@bme.anon IAM sarrrah_hardcore When A month ago Studio Atomic Tattoos The eighteenth birthday in our society is a rite of passage. We become legal, able to make decisions without parental consent. Many newly-turned eighteen-year-olds take this time to go out and buy their first lottery ticket or their first pack of cigarettes. I used this opportunity to get my first tattoo. To me, pain is a rite of passage, and this blissful pain will never be forgotten. I've known for years that I would get a tattoo on my eighteenth birthday. There was no other choice. I've always thought of the people who adorn themselves in color and metal as beautiful creatures, not afraid to conform to society's standards of appearance. From the age of thirteen I yearned to join their ranks. I wanted to make myself beautiful in my own eyes. I started researching studios, artists, and design almost a year before the date of my planned rite of passage, September 9, 2006. I went with friends to give support while getting their own tattoos. I got a feel for the whole process. The sound of the tattoo machine, with its nine needles repeatedly puncturing flesh over and over and over, soothed me, put me into a peaceful state of mind. The whole setting, the smell of "hospital clean" (though this was far from the hospital atmosphere, there is no other way to describe this scent), the ambient music, the flash designs, everything...It felt like a second home. I wanted to walk up to the front desk and lay my credit card down right then and there, but I snapped out of my fantasy briefly enough to remind myself that I was only seventeen and that I still had no clue what I wanted to permanently inscribe on my body.
The hunt for a design is arduous. I spent hours wracking the inner workings of my brain trying to find something that was uniquely me, that no one (or almost no one) could replicate because it wasn't uniquely them. I've always been interested in the Russian language, attempting to teach it to myself in high school. I didn't make it past the Cyrillic alphabet. I decided to give Russian another shot here in college. I picked it up pretty fast and even was able to spell my name in Russian. It was beautiful. One glance and I knew that this is what I wanted to adorn my body with. A name is one of the most unique pieces of a person because not many people have the same combination of first, middle, and last names. I played around with fonts and colors. I played around with placement. I played around with side designs. I eventually settled on an italicized bubble-letter version. I wanted to fill it in black and add a pair of good/evil sparrows on each side, but after a consultation with my artist I decided it would be good to start off with just an outline of my name because 1) Pain is relative from person-to-person and I had no prior tattoo experiences to base my expectations on, and 2) I knew I wouldn't have enough money for a one time sit-down. We made an appointment for 6:00 P.M. on September 9, 2006 and I was set. All that was left to do was wait for the big day.
My dad picked me up the day before to take me home. I had butterflies in my stomach the whole ride home. The next day I would finally have adult status. The next day would be my turn in the chair. The next day would be the beginning of my transformation into what I consider "beauty". My birthday day passed. I got a gift certificate to Atomic Tattoos as my parents promised, but I would save that for a piercing three weeks later (another story for another day). I wanted to pay for this tattoo with my own money, hard-earned from hours of slaving over a register ringing up groceries for one of the upper-class neighborhoods of central Pinellas County. In the time waiting for six o'clock I managed trips to SuperTarget, the mall, and Publix. Six o'clock seemed forever and a day away.
At 5:45 my dad and I took the drive to Atomic Tattoos. I would have driven myself, but my history with piercing, drawing blood, and the such have proven that I tend to pass out very easily. The way there I sat listening to The Used by The Used, taking myself out of a state of nervousness. As I walked in a huge group of clients were leaving, leaving me the only person in the store. My artist, who I had seen a week prior, warmly greeted me and started looking through a file folder for my custom design. Even though he has seen me inside the studio before with friends, he still took the time to explain the whole process to me. He would first make a copy of my design on carbon paper to use as a stencil on my skin. We would decide on placement, and when we reached an agreement he would shave the area and apply an adhesive (he prefers using Speed Stick like most tattoo artists). Then he would pour the black ink into a well, sterilize the tattoo machine and apply a "jacket" (plastic cover) to the body of the machine. He would apply his gloves and the tattooing would begin. While he was explaining this to me, I filled out the required paperwork and he made a copy of my I.D.
After playing around with placements, my artist and I decided to tattoo on my back, between my shoulderblades. It would be useful for when I come back to get my sparrows because the shoulderblade provides good placement. I was warned that the tattoo would go over my spine, and getting tattooed here will hurt more than the rest of my back, no matter how much "plush" you have back there. I have a knack for choosing painful placements (also evident in my first "real" piercing). Since I was the only person in the shop he asked me if I wanted to put in a cd. I had my The Used cd in the car. I brought it back and we put it on. He did all the prep work, and within a few minutes I found myself straddling the tattoo chair with the sound of a buzzing tattoo machine in the background. I'm an anticipator. I told him to not tell me when he was about to lay the machine to my skin because I would anticipate and the pain would be worse than what it really is. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally began tattooing my Russian name into my back. The pain is indescribable. I immediately felt a surge of endorphins and adrenaline. I winched at the burning sensation in my back. A few minutes later the initial pain subsided, but then he started going over my spine. I felt my entire spine vibrating in pain. My eyes teared up. But soon the pain was gone and we were back to normal flesh. I started to anticipate the second go around on my spine, magnifying the pain ten fold by the time we reached the spine again. I found the strength to lift my head between bouts of pain and asked if we could stop because I felt faint. He told me that he had just finished. I let out a sigh of relief and layed my head back on the headrest. Some water and a pack of white chocolate Reeses later I was well enough to stand up and pay.
As I write this I have the song "The Taste of Ink" playing in the background. Every time I've listened to this song since my tattoo I relive the entire experience. I experience the same beautiful sensation over and over. The chorus explains perfectly how I felt before and after the tattoo, how my perception of myself changed in the course of thirty minutes. I plan on returning to finish off my tattoo around Christmas. I also have been in the process of designing an entire back piece, which I plan to work on throughout college, all while listening to "The Taste of Ink".