My first tattoo was placed upon my arm when I was eighteen years old.
I was with my boyfriend and was watching the process of him getting my name tattoed on his arm by his cousin – things were done that way back then, by backwoods armchair tattoo ‘artists’. Long sewing needles had thread wrapped and tied around them; black Indian ink was the only color they used.
The cousin was working on his arm and I, who was afraid of needles, said, “Dang, that looks like it hurts!”
The cousin dipped the needle into the ink and leaned over towards me, and to my utter dismay, stabbed my arm and said, “Nah, see, it doesn’t hurt!” Short note, IT DID!
I have had this permanent mark upon my arm for almost fifty years now, and every time I go to a dermatology appointment, they want to take a closer look at that black dot on my arm to ensure it isn’t skin cancer.
I thought I’d have it removed, but then I’d have a permanent scar – so which of those would be a worse memory to carry of an abusive ex?
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