I pretty much have a very solid theory that the smaller the tattoo, the bigger the fuss about it. A bigger fuss about the design, a bigger fuss about the price, a bigger fuss about the pain, you get the picture. I rarely have anyone in here getting anything smaller than three inches square that doesn't act like I'm about to remove their frontal lobe with a rusty hand saw and replace it with a chicken heart. Today was no different.
A timid blonde walked in and showed me a phrase she had typed out for her first tattoo. I knew as soon as I saw the paper, I was in for a ride. She had retyped the phrase five times, and had typed the name of the font next to each version of the phrase. I have no idea what that was about. Knowing the name of the font is of no consequence to anyone, it's simply a matter of the customer liking the design and the design being feasible as a tattoo. Naturally, none of them were doable. Too small, too intricate, the usual with designs like this. The customer decides way in advance that this is what they want, with no knowledge of how tattooing actually works.Then I have to spend a half hour trying to break them of their idea and convince them that mine is better. It's never easy.
I retyped the phrase for her over and over, in different fonts, upper case, lower case, bigger and smaller sizes. She wasn't going to let go, no matter how hard I tried to convince her otherwise. And, of couse, this is one of these cases where they HAVE to have a tattoo....and it must never be seen by anyone, ever, anywhere, anytime. Please explain that to me. If you're ashamed or afraid of being judged, don't get tattoos. Period. So, it wasn't bad enough she wanted teeny-weeny Roman font, she wanted it on her inner bicep. If you ever want to know what that's about, take a plastic baggie and fill it about 3/4 of the way with applesauce. Then lay that on a table. That's the surface you're working on, and micro-precision and geometric perfection are damn near impossible. I went back and forth with her over the lettering until we both agreed on something that I didn't think would look too much like a disaster after six months, and I gave her the release form to sign.
"Are you going to mail anything to this address?" She asked me, indicating the line where we ask for her address.
"No," I told her, "The health department just asks for that. We don't even keep these forms around after a while."
She nodded and continued. "So, is it bad if I've eaten in the last four hours?" I want to scratch that off of every release form in here. That question alone causes more people to shit themselves than any other on the form. We'll still tattoo you whether you have or haven't. We really don't even care, if you pass out, we're equipped to deal with it. People who have shat themselves over that question blithely jump in the chair without telling us they have latex allergies, iodine allergies, et cetera. But I digress.
So I get her back to my station and apply the stencil. She's then upset that the lettering doesn't line up with her wrist. She keeps drawing a line from her armpit to her wrist and saying she wants it to follow that line. Mind you, the phrase is about a quarter inch high and two inches long. I reapply the stencil numerous times, each time, she's trying to bend her elbow and watch what I'm doing. I keep telling her to straighten her arm so I can see this imaginary line, but to no avail. She sighs and asks me if she can apply the stencil herself. I'm ready to laugh, but I keep it in and carefully hand her the tiny, damp strip of paper. She stands in front of the mirror, makes a few hesitant approaches to her inner arm, then turns back to me, flustered. "I think you better do it," she said.
"Great idea," I reply and put it on once more. She seems happy and so I lay her on the table to work. As I get to work picking away at the wee letters with the tightest liner I have, in walks a regular customer of mine. She comes back to say hello, and as I work we begin chatting about the upcoming convention I'll be working. She has plans to come up and show an older piece I had done on her, and possibly do another at the show. We chitchat as I work, and after about five minutes, Blondie raises her head and says, In a rather agitated tone, "I'm sorry--is it normal procedure to talk while you're tattooing?"
I had no asnwer. And that wasn't a question that was looking for a yes-or-no answer. That was a "How dare you, stop fucking around and pay attention to what you're doing" statement. I know the difference. It's all in the tone. People ask often, "Is it normal to bleed that much?" And the tone implies one of two things: "Is it normal to bleed that much", or, "You incompetent fucking jackass, what the hell are you doing to me". There is a subtle difference, and after all this time, I'm quite able to tell which is which. I sighed, stopped what I was doing, and asked my visitor if she could come back. She asked when and I said, "About five minutes." This made Blondie jerk her head up off the table and stare at me in astonishment. I didn't even have to ask to know what she was thinking: That I was going to rush through her tattoo and screw it up. Yeah....if you can't do a tattoo that's a quarter inch by two inches in under ten minutes, you need to find a new job, end of discussion.
My visitor wandered back up to the front to wait for me, and I got back to work. I was fuming. Really? As if I can't do two things at once? As if doing some little piss-ass tattoo requires every fiber of my being to concentrate. The radio was on and playing music. There were other customers in the shop that were talking to each other, and to their artist as he was working. Not that I encourage watching the tattoo reality shows, but have you ever seen them? The motherfuckers don't shut up the whole time they're working, and neither do the people in their chairs. It's like a damn talk show, only with blood. I was thinking to myself if it ever occured to her that lots of people do things while talking. You should hear the operating room; they banter away while repairing holes in people's internal organs, for cryin' out loud.
I finished the tattoo and brought her up to the front. As she paid, her boyfriend said something to her in a low voice. She looked at me and piped up, "I didn't mean to be rude, it was a big decision, and I just thought it was wrong that you were talking." OH, THANK YOU....I am an amoral, rudderless dipshit, adrift in a sea of malfeasance, I so needed you to come in and set me straight. I smiled and nodded, telling her "no problem", despite the fact that my hands were curling into neck-wringing claws behind the counter. It's all I can do to not toss people through the front window anymore.
