by Jaya Saxena
When I was 17 I knew exactly the tattoo I was going to get when I turned 18. It was the best tattoo: delicate yet totally punk rock. It was going to be a red-and-black (or blue-and-black, that was still up in the air) nautical star on the inside of my wrist, with tiny red stars and black music notes going around the rest of my wrist like a bracelet. It was going to be so hot, and I could cover it with a thick cuff. Oh man, this tattoo was going to make me so cool. And then Tom DeLonge of Blink-182 would finally want to make out with me. What do you mean, "What does the tattoo mean?" It means I like music and I think nautical stars look cool. Do tattoos have to mean more than that? Whatever, I was convinced this tattoo was going to make me the coolest. But first I had to go to lunch with my mom.
My mom and I, living in the East Village, saw our fair share of tattoos. I developed a hopeless fascination with the art, chatting up the tattoo artists in my neighborhood about what they did and what they had on their bodies. My mom didn't have the same relationship with them. As a WASP she is polite and neat and compassionate and accepting, but also pretty squeamish when it comes to body modifications. As curious as she would get, most of the time she was just freaked out. Every once in a while one of the tattoos had to come up in conversation. This happened during our lunch at the Life Cafe:
"So the other day, I saw this woman with a tattoo of a black line down her eye. Just...how sad do you have to be to do that?"
[Turn on most petulant teenage voice here] "Whatever, maybe she liked it. People should be able to do what they want. I want a tattoo."
"Really? Why? Jaya, that's going to be on you forever. How do you know you even want it on you forever?"
"I designed it myself and it's going to be really pretty! And I drew it on my wrist in Sharpie and it looks awesome."
At this point the Waiter-With-Deep-Brown-Eyes-I-Could-Gaze-At-Forever comes to take our order.
"Hi ladies, how are you doing today?"
Read more:
When I was 17 I knew exactly the tattoo I was going to get when I turned 18. It was the best tattoo: delicate yet totally punk rock. It was going to be a red-and-black (or blue-and-black, that was still up in the air) nautical star on the inside of my wrist, with tiny red stars and black music notes going around the rest of my wrist like a bracelet. It was going to be so hot, and I could cover it with a thick cuff. Oh man, this tattoo was going to make me so cool. And then Tom DeLonge of Blink-182 would finally want to make out with me. What do you mean, "What does the tattoo mean?" It means I like music and I think nautical stars look cool. Do tattoos have to mean more than that? Whatever, I was convinced this tattoo was going to make me the coolest. But first I had to go to lunch with my mom. My mom and I, living in the East Village, saw our fair share of tattoos. I developed a hopeless fascination with the art, chatting up the tattoo artists in my neighborhood about what they did and what they had on their bodies. My mom didn't have the same relationship with them. As a WASP she is polite and neat and compassionate and accepting, but also pretty squeamish when it comes to body modifications. As curious as she would get, most of the time she was just freaked out. Every once in a while one of the tattoos had to come up in conversation. This happened during our lunch at the Life Cafe:
"So the other day, I saw this woman with a tattoo of a black line down her eye. Just...how sad do you have to be to do that?"
[Turn on most petulant teenage voice here] "Whatever, maybe she liked it. People should be able to do what they want. I want a tattoo."
"Really? Why? Jaya, that's going to be on you forever. How do you know you even want it on you forever?"
"I designed it myself and it's going to be really pretty! And I drew it on my wrist in Sharpie and it looks awesome."
At this point the Waiter-With-Deep-Brown-Eyes-I-Could-Gaze-At-Forever comes to take our order.
"Hi ladies, how are you doing today?"
Read more:
