I am the cliche of the rebellious teenager with a tattoo who grew up to be a young adult with regret. Two weeks after my 18th birthday — the golden age when you know everything and you’re always right, despite your mother’s lament warnings — I sat proudly in a tattoo chair. I remember lying down on the taut black leather recliner with satisfaction as the gun flickered to life with a high-pitched hum, and shot a delicate yet rhythmic pain deep into my back.
I had come up with the design for my tattoo two years prior, which led me to believe I’d be ready by the time I was legally old enough to get the ink. After I got off the black recliner and went home that night with a big white bandage taped under my shirt like a wonderful secret, I thought I had made the right choice. But it only took a few years before the novelty of my […]