Today isn’t any special day—merely a Sunday like any other Sundays (maybe a bit hotter), without any special occasion. It is today that I’ve had my first and arguably last ink.
I’d always to have an ink, I told a friend such, and she replied that she wanted an ink to be a memorial to a unique event. I didn’t quite share her idea: to me, an ink doesn’t necessarily carry any meaning, nor does it have to celebrate anything. To me it’s simply something you want to try because a (big) part of you craves for new experiences. New things excite you, enchant you, compel you to have your hands on them even just once. And unless it’s something detrimental and having a long lasting harmful effect like drugs (the editor in me is screaming false parallelism—just ignore her!) then what’s harm is there in doing something you don’t normally do for a change?
I held onto that thought when a friend asked me if I wanted to come with him to the shop and I said yes. It was much prevalent as I stepped inside the stylishly decorated shop and as I lay down on a couch with a soft, plush pillow under my back and an artist over my body. My friend was kind enough to book me a female artist since I was going to have one that would require showing some skin that was rarely shown nowhere but the swimming pool: in an ideal world I’d have it on the back of my hand or foot; however, the world is far from perfect so I settled with something less visible, something I could cover with clothing. Wouldn’t want my folks to freak out over my tiny act of rebellion.
So, I spent the next half an hour or so simply relaxing in the air-conditioned atmosphere of the room and the pleasant-smelling artist’s care (forgive the smell part but she smelled really nice I couldn’t help it). It was relatively painless, the procedure, and it felt like someone doodling on your skin with a ballpoint pen, and if I am to be honest, it felt rather good. Mine was a small, simple character so it didn’t take long; before it got uncomfortable lying too long in one position, the inking was all done. The artist photographed my ink as proof of my purchase, I paid for it and we went to have lunch. Overally a productive morning.
Now if you’re curious about what I had had tattooed on my body, it’s the character ‘M’ styled like this.
If you happen to watch The Originals (and are obsessed to that series as I am), you’ll recognize it as the symbol of the Mikaelsons, the Original family. This ink is a little trinket to remind myself years later that was one fandom I so adored that I wanted to have something significant from it printed on my skin. And what’s more significant a symbol than the ‘sigil’ of the Mikaelsons, the family that love their own blood so much that they have repeatedly hurt one another? Kind of a funny and twisted reminder of familial values, eh?
The last note before I bring this entry to a conclusion. Some time ago I told a friend I wanted to have an ink and she wholeheartedly agreed that we would find a trustable shop and have it together. Something might have happened between us—I’m not entirely sure what—and we haven’t talked or hung out for months. Today I had my ink without her.