My uncle introduced me to tattoos when I was a child simply by having them on his forearms. I believe he has one on each forearm and one on each bicep, but I only remember the tiger. It crawled toward his wrist, from what I recall, and he must have got it when he was young because it faded well with age.
I liked them. I didn’t know explicitly that I would get one until I was older but get one I did, shortly before my son was born. It’s on the top of my back and usually hidden by my clothes. People are surprised when they see it, and the first comment is usually along the lines of, “I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” followed up with, “Can I see it?” because it’s only peeking out the top of my shirt.
Recently I got another. This one will be much more visible as it’s positioned on the inside of my wrist, and I’m not in the habit of wearing long sleeves. It will be clear to many people why I got it when they see it, and I’m thrilled with what my artist whipped up from what I told her I wanted.
It itches right now, having entered the scabby/flaky stage. I’m thrilled for this, and the art is healing well. My first tattoo suffered from my not being able to see it, and not wanting to ask for help with its aftercare, but this one will not. This one, I’m pleased to say, I have not yet picked or fussed with except for adding perhaps a tad more ointment than I was instructed.
There’s another itch, though, too. Almost before the redness had faded and the swelling had gone down, I began to want another. The same arm, unfortunately, which will create a slightly unbalanced distribution of art, and almost certainly likely to create a need to add to the other arm, and then full sleeves before you know it. (I’m only joking about the timeline, so you know.)
And so that’s where I am. Itching, healing, admiring, and so happy with my new ink.