Telling Mom Was Hardest Part

Ever since I turned the magic age of 18, I wanted to do just about anything to prove my freedom. So one day I decided I would get a tattoo.

I called around Spokane looking for the least expensive place, but hoping for a fine quality tattoo. Most places charge different amounts depending on the tattoo, so I had to shop around to get a feel for what I wanted and where I wanted it done.

My friend Molly and I walked into Artistic Impressions, where I thought the price was reasonable and where she’d gotten her tattoo. I was all excited, anxious to show the world - except my mom - my creative expression on my ankle.

Duffy was the tattoo artist/expert who was going to draw the beautiful flower I chose. He told me to take a seat. Then I took off my shoe and sock and showed him where I wanted it. I prepared myself for the shock of a lifetime.

He poured the inks I chose into little artist pallets, grabbed the tattoo gun and the needle, reached over and grabbed a new pair of rubber gloves. By that time I was really nervous, and I was starting to have second thoughts about the whole thing.

After he had sanitized the area, he traced the flower onto some trace paper pressed against my skin. The design came out very clear and I saw what the outcome would be. Then he looked at me, smiled and said, “You ready?”

“Why not,” I replied. “I’ve always wanted one and I can’t chicken out now!”

He handed me a stuffed bunny rabbit, and I asked Molly to come over and talk to me while the whole thing was going on. I kept talking about anything and everything that would pop into my head, from ex-boyfriends to what would happen when my mom saw this.

When he first started, it felt like my cat was scratching me so hard that it was making me bleed. It kind of hurt. But after the first two minutes it didn’t hurt me at all, it was getting annoying. It was over in five minutes.

After he was finished, Duffy handed me a mirror to check out the final result; I was quite impressed. Two minutes of pain was totally worth it. When I was done admiring my new “scar” on my ankle, he bandaged it up, told me to take it off in two hours, wash it with a little soap, pat dry and put non-scented lotion on it for the next few days so it would heal. The most important thing was DON’T PICK THE SCAB when it starts to heal.

After it was done, I had to think of a way to hide this from my mom. All I could think about was what she told me after my other friend Rose got her tattoo: If you even think about getting one, you better find someplace else to live.

Just hearing that play over and over in my head was making me really scared to go home that day.

What I didn’t know is you can’t cover up a new tattoo while it’s healing. After you get a tattoo it has to have time to breathe. I thought you could get away with wearing socks over it. Boy, was I wrong! The sock stuck to the tattoo, so I was out of luck.

One day I was going out with a group of my friends from work and had one foot out the door when my mom called for me.

“Tracy, come here, I need to speak with you.”

I walked in and the first thing she said was “What’s that on your ankle?” I tried to explain to her that I felt the need to express myself in a positive way. I had to sit there and listen to her lecture about how disfiguring yourself is wrong. She lectured me for at least 15 minutes, then I got to explain why I wanted it.

We worked things out, came to an agreement and she didn’t throw me out. But deep inside I thinks she likes it.

As for me, I was pretty impressed with the whole process and I show off my tattoo every chance I get.