Getting a Tattoo
I am not always good at explaining what I want. I worry too much that I am being annoying, or that the thing I am asking for is too weird. Or both. Also, I’ve realized that even though I think about words all the time, I sometimes have a hard time describing what’s in my head—like, more than once, I have asked for a haircut that is “squarer” and gotten a furrowed brow in response. A problem for another day.
So, on Saturday, I got a tattoo—my first—and the “no backsies” effect of the whole thing really did raise the stakes. Before my appointment, I psyched myself up a bit, thinking okay, if you don’t like something about it, you have to say so this time.
Which I had to do almost immediately. My tattoo artist (who was extremely lovely and perfect) had taken my idea—a little doodle of my dearly departed cat—and also drawn a much more realistic-looking portrait—just to see what it might be like.
I was stricken for a moment—Is this better? Does my thing suck?—until the little voice in my head reminded me that this was going ON MY BODY in a PERMANENT WAY.
I, um, was imagining something more, um, doodly? I said, somewhat sheepish.
I love silly little tattoos! they said, laughing. (If you’re in Boston and in the market for a tattoo, I cannot recommend KJ from Said and Done more.)
I got what I wanted, unequivocally. It’s Harpo how I’d like to remember him—my little guy, an endlessly sweet and patient being, a reminder that your love is free and easy to give.