My ‘nothing is truly permanent’ mindset was put to the test about a year ago when I got a tattoo that I absolutely hated which, turned out, wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Sure, I sat through excruciating laser sessions where I got my fix for Eau De Human Brulée but there are just some colors that don’t want to come out, and those happened to be the staple hues of my mistake. But this weekend everything became right in the world, as I finally had my artist cover it up. Unfortunately, while he was covering it up, I was anything but.
The remnants of this particular tattoo were on my lower hip and from experience, my artist has a habit of just pulling clothing down and/or up when it gets in his way, nevermind what that particular piece of clothing may be intending to cover up. I get it. His job is to stare at his outline, not my special parts. That being said, there are most definitely more than a few hobos and/or drug addicts walking up and down the street outside of the shop who—if given the chance—would make a job out of doing that and whose eye I had already caught during past sittings, thanks to the fact that my artists’ chair is directly in front of the window. So, having spent hours upon hours in the past trying to strategically arrange my pants or tactically shoving a purse between my legs to fill the gap created by my skirt, I went into this sitting with a goal and a plan. I spent hours thinking through the perfect outfit—one that would allow the right kind of access and prevent the wrong kind. After experimenting for 30 minutes with potential fits, I selected the following:
- Elastic skinny jeans that could be pulled down but were tight enough to not completely fall off—ass covering: check.
- Tight and long-fitting tank top—flabby stomach and backup-ass covering: check.
- Thong underwear that could be pulled up instead of down—cooter cover: check.
With that, I was set and completely confident that my three-hour sitting would not turn into the free-hour midget peep show. So you can imagine the look on my face when my artist said, “OK, these need to come off.”
It took a good minute of “I’m sorry, what?” and “I’m not getting it” and “OK, so you need me to do what, exactly?” and “I’m not quite understanding this” before I realized he was talking about my pants. “But you can keep your underwear on” was his next statement. I would have found this comforting but for the fact that half of the underwear I had strategically selected was, by design, hidden up the exact feature I was now trying to cover, removing any sense that it would provide coverage that I deemed “adequate.”
Long story short, Saturday afternoon was a good day to be walking in front of that tattoo shop–or bad, depending on what sort of standards you have when it comes to half-naked women.