Outgrowing a tattoo: When your body art no longer fits your skin.
“That’s gonna look hot,” my girlfriend smiled as she sat with me in a San Diego tattoo parlor.
Devon, my tattoo artist, lifted the spirit paper that transferred a black tribal tattoo outlining my belly button. “Just lay back.”
I felt some mild stinging as the vibrating needle shaded ink around my inner navel, but it was over pretty quickly, and when I walked out of there, it looked hot.
Today, girls with tattoos are as common as fading starlets spitting out babies, but this was 1995 - right before the tattoo craze hit suburbia and college kids began running out in droves to be a part of the ink-fest. This is when all-American girls regarded tattoos as exciting, but a little tasteless - and have since gone on to sport lower back tramp-stamps of butterflies and barb-wired hearts.
Back then, my ink display was definitely an object of intrigue. Walking in to a club with a prominent tummy-tat garnered more attention than fake breasts at NASCAR. I often got free admission, free drinks, hit on by both men and women, and partied in style. It was sweet.
Fast-forward three years
I was graduating from college and entering a world of interviews, skirts that fastened, and mom-heels - trying to figure out what the hell I was gonna do with my life. I stopped going to clubs because I learned it’s cheaper to stay home with friends and whiskey when I’m solely responsible for rent. And although I had great memories of being a skin-art flashing girl, I realized something: That was no longer my life and I no longer wanted my tattoo. It was difficult to hide under white blouses and if I ever became pregnant, my navel would resemble a black, crawling starfish. So I decided to off my tattoo through laser removal.
Now I had been told by those who came before me that getting tattoo laser treatments feels similar to a rubber band snapping on your skin. I’m OK with that, I thought. How bad could it be?
As I’m swinging my feet off the clinic table, the doctor pulled up his chair. “Just lay back.”
A metal apparatus cascaded down from the ceiling, attaching to a wand placed on my tattoo. A series of clicks rang out and I shut my eyes.
Sweet bride of Hell.
A guttural cry spewed forth from the pit of my stomach that can still be heard in the clinic halls today. And this masochism continued for many months to come and thousands, yes thousands, of dollars later.
Although I do have other body art, I am now tribal-star free and oddly, I don’t regret getting it. However I find it necessary, much as an ex-pedophile talking to an unsuspecting Catholic chap, to shed some words of warning. Tattoos fucking rule, but - it is common that some will lose their place in your life. So, if they do not hold undying significance from the beginning, take a moment and reflect on your tattoo decision. Your virgin skin, and your future finances, may thank you.
Check out more tattoo photos, and vote whether or not these RMT users have, too, outgrown their designs and should opt for removal.
