Oh, don’t EVEN when it comes to tattoos in our family. Mom hates them and makes mean cracks. Somehow dementia has not dulled THAT edge.
I have always liked them and got the first of two when I was 37. Smokey Nightingale—a famous inker in DC at the time (now dead).
I got my second from a speed freak named Wade out here in Arizona—when visiting, before I moved here.
My sister and I got the same one—we sort of designed it from a brooch we saw in a catalog and then Wade, who had been to art school he trippingly told us as he tweaked away, refined it. Very pretty.
My sister later added a banner to hers with her husband’s middle name. Tattoos are so personal.
A 2007 Pew study says 40% of those born between 1961 and 1981 have a “unit,” as Smokey liked to call them.
Forty-five million Americans have at least one.
Of course, the bossy cows like to blat on about Hep C, etc. Hey, hope you don’t get hit by a bus. Make sure the joint has an autoclave. Buy some Hibiclens.
The stigma? Sure—you can run into it. I advise not to do neck or face and put your tatts places that can be covered during an interview at IBM.
Although---a unit that reads I B M – who knows? Maybe with a nice little banner that reads OR BUST.
0 comments:
Post a Comment