I got my second tattoo recently.
It had been three years since I first exposed myself to the tacky surface of a studio chair. My arm was steady under the light, and thousands of microscopic needles worked through my skin.
Tattoos have an addictive pain that’s hard to pin down, hard to explain.
I wanted to experience it again, as the feeling had become muddled over time. My mind mixes the scratch of shading with the pressure of a clean, cut line.
Before booking the appointment, I considered the possibilities: Should it be on the back of my left arm or right? Closer to the elbow or shoulder?
I knew what the tattoo would be for a while — a party hat to honor my grandfather.
A man who wore four party hats at once. One over each ear, two on his head like horns, maybe one like a beak over his mouth.
He was never short of charisma.
One of my roommates at Denison University designed 13 different hats for my cousin and me to choose from. Caroline crafted each polka dot, thick or thin stripe, horizontally and vertically, running the surface of the cones. Some are topped with a pom pom, some not.
Two of Caroline’s sketches caught my attention, so I decided to get a pair of hats: one for myself and one for Mike.
When the day came, my tattoo only took 30 minutes. My cousin sat next to me. We swapped places for her turn. Then we were done.
I left with a multifaceted reminder of kinship.
I got the tattoo designed by my best friend, which honors my best friend, alongside my best friend.
And I still can’t explain the touch of the needle. Maybe next time.
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