Here we are again at personal reveal time. As it has become a custom, I shall now do a quick recap of what you have learned thus far. First I told you how TotusMel, the name was born. Then I shared my first dead dream, followed by the origin of my hair color and finally, how I met my husband. Today I shall tell you the story that gives me a reason to call myself a tattooed needle tatted by answering another question that nobody ever asked.
How did you get your first tattoo?
I think that is worth noting that by the time I was 16, I had adopted, let's say, an alternative appearance. Multi-colored hair wraps, hair of unnatural shades, and gobs of junk jewelry worn all at the same time. Underneath all of this I was just a little geek. Sure I had my fair share of drunken night, but I avoided the drugs and really had no "unsavory" friends, I just looked like I might. When the blond, rich girl that sat next to me in French class started going on about where to find someone who would tattoo a 16 year old because she assumed I knew someone, I just thought to myself that I wasn't going to allow her to get one first.
This was just the beginning of the 90's tribal tattoo, tramp stamp era, but since I didn't actually know anyone that could help me and the Internet was still sometime away from existing at my house, I set about helping myself. Using all the knowledge that television could provide, I opted for a sterilized needle and since I didn't want a "prison" ink tattoo that would fade to blue, I decided to use, and this confirms my crafting cred, fabric paint. My reasoning being that it was non-toxic. To further my geek stature I decided to place said tattoo on the top of my big toe in the shape of the Star Trek symbol. Days later the whole thing peeled off as a scab. Turns out that I did not stab deep enough and I'm left with some faint and unrecognizable splotches.
I was not going to let this setback derail my plan to have the tattoo first, so I went straight back to work. This time I placed the design on my ankle just behind the anklebone. It was a small flower that looked like a five year old had drawn it complete with red petals and a green leave, but I was proud none the less. I then proceeded to do an ankh on the other ankle.
Of course now I had another problem, my mother. I began using a ball point pen to trace over the tattoos to convince her that I was simply drawing them on everyday. After a few months I stopped and when she finally acknowledged them I flippantly retorted that I had had them for months. I do not think that she was amused, but it was too late to do anything about them.
Since then they have faded horrible and are barely recognizable and I've gotten quite a few more tattoos done right, but that's a reveal for another day. I have said for years that I will eventually get something done over them, but the truth is they have become part of my history. They are a reminder that some decisions stay with you and you can either regret them or own them. Perhaps I'll get frames tattooed around them instead to give them a place of honor rather that disgrace.