Last year, two days after my birthday, I got a tattoo. I’d always been intrigued with body art and decided that it was high time I got in the game. Why get a tattoo now and not, say, ten years ago? Because ten years I lived in Minnesota, not New York City, and I figured that if you’re not willing to buck up and take a risk here there’s really no hope.

Deciding to go through with it was easy. Deciding on the design was another story. In my world, a tattoo should reflect, but not define; make sense, but not bow to cliché; be mysterious, but not confusing. So after contemplating several ideas—including a constellation and a German abbreviation for the word “between” that I swear made sense at the time—I kept coming back to the single wing that now resides on my left hip. A clean, simple nod to my love for running and all things physical.

Once set on the wing, I marched into Andromeda Tattoo Studio on St. Mark’s Place — chosen after a good deal of nerdy research into NYC tattoo parlors. Glamourite Jenny accompanied; I had the image of my wing lodged firmly in my brain. I signed the requisite waiver, paid the $89 in the adjacent piercing parlor, and began flipping through pages and pages of designs to no avail. All the wings were too fairy-ish, too bird-like, too demon-esque—not one fit the bill.

Thank god for Joe, an Andromeda artist with a penchant for squirrels (yes, squirrels), who drew me the perfect wing. He led me to a room in the back, asked me to drop my jeans (“Lower, sweetie,” he said. “I’ve seen it all before.”), and voila - marked me for life. When it was all said and done I kissed him on the cheek and practically danced out of the place. Nine months later the three-inch-long beauty still makes perfect sense when I glimpse it in the mirror. Even though I’d purposely placed it in a fairly low-key spot, certain pairs of my jeans dip just low enough to let the tip of it peek out. And if I stretch just right, more of it creeps into view. Truth is I want people to catch a glimpse now and then - a little mystery never hurts.

Sometimes I catch myself contemplating a second one, which (who knows?) might be in the cards one of these days. And being the tattoo convert that I am, I encourage everyone who has even a glimmer of tattoo desire to go for it. I also tucked away the lessons learned along the way, which will definitely be considered before the next installment:

Think it through (at least a little): Remember that the art will conceivably be on your body forever - if a pink unicorn prancing on a moonbeam seems perfect now, take an extra five minutes to make sure it’s really what you want. (Reputable tattooists won’t ink a drunk person, so you’re golden from that angle (read: no surprises come morning).) Bottom line? As long as the design means something to you and reflects what you’re about, have at it.

Get comfortable: Listen to your gut. If you walk into a tattoo place and feel the least bit squeamish, head for the hills. Things should be clean (even in a gritty parlor), the artist should open a brand new needle in front of you, and he or she shouldn’t allow other people in the room when the deed is being done.

Relish the pain: It’s going to hurt, but no more than a particularly challenging Brazilian bikini wax. The needle stings; lines hurt worse than shading. It’s all part of the deal, but worth it.

Play by the rules: The soap-and-water washings and copious applications of A&D Ointment might seem a little square, but follow the instructions. Don’t be lazy and tempt fate. The tat will itch and scale and peel, but keep on the regimen and the new addition will be in stellar shape.

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This entry was posted on Sunday, September 24th, 2006 at 1:00 am and is filed under Glamourites, Shopping, Personal, Glamour, New York City. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.