Growing up, the authority figures in my life were generally not in favor of tattoos. They pointed out that tattoos are (more or less) permanent and something that seems cool at 19 may not be nearly as cool at 45. Occasionally, religious text (Leviticus 19:28) was cited. As time passed, these warnings have faded but remained.

Someone wise once advised me if I wanted a tattoo, decide what I wanted and where I wanted it, and then wait at least a year. If at the end of the year my desires hadn’t changed, that was at least a small sign that I wouldn’t grow to hate the tattoo. About a month or so ago, I realized it had been two full years.

The tattoo was simple: the phrase “molon labe” in Greek letters inside my left forearm. The phrase has stuck with me since I first read about the Battle of Thermopylae in 2005. As I was researching designs last month, I discovered, with some dismay, that the phrase has been adopted by a group of people who are possibly just a little bit too enthusiastic about the 2^nd Amendment. I mean, I’m a gun owner, but seriously. Calm down.

Today, I had a tattoo place picked out. Inspiring reviews on Yelp. All I needed to do was pick up the phone and set up an appointment. Unfortunately, in real life I don’t have the best bias for action, and so I spent about two and a half hours going back and forth until my inner Leonidas told me to stop being such a bitch and pick up the phone.

“Besides,” I told myself, “this looks like a pretty popular place, there’s no way they’ll be able to get you in today. At best you might have a consult and then an appointment set a week from now, and if you change your mind you can always say that you’ve contracted pleurisy and need to cancel.”

The chipper young woman at the other end asked me a series of pointed questions. “Not a problem,” she concluded, “How about 3 pm?”

I glanced at the clock. Twenty-two minutes past noon. Shit. “That’s perfect,” I said.

“Great! See you then!”

I emailed her the image as requested and spent the next few hours texting people and buying cocktail mixers in a feeble attempt to suppress the inner monologue.

What if you need to find a new job and the place you want to work frowns on tattoos? What’s it going to be like being forced to wear horrible long-sleeved shirts? What if the tattoo artist fucks up and you end up on FailBlog? Are you SURE your design actually says “molon labe”? What if the incline of a letter is a bit off and that changes the meaning to “goat molester”? You realize you DON’T ACTUALLY READ GREEK, you’re relying on people on the internet for this, right? You’ll never be able to be a flight attendant now, and deep down inside you’ve always wanted to spend a few weeks working as a flight attendant.

It was difficult to ward these thoughts off, even as I spent some last-minute time researching the minutiae of tattoo etiquette. But eventually the time came and I zipped down to the parlor. I rolled inside and a heavily tattooed man with a goatee greeted me. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to get a tattoo.”

“Okay, who with?”

Um. Shit. I didn’t get her name. “I’m not sure.”

He gave me a look like I was mildly retarded. “You don’t know who you’re getting a tattoo with?”

Shit. Eight seconds in and I’ve already committed a major faux pas.

I begin explaining and he realizes fairly quickly. “Oh, you’re with Beeker. BEEKER!”

A moment later a heavily tattooed, bubbly sort of young woman rolls in and introduces herself as Beeker. She retrieves the drawings I sent in and we spend a few minutes discussing placement and size. She heads off to create a stencil and gives me a page of paper to initial and sign, full of statements like “I will not sue you if my arm rots off” and things like that. As I initial, the guy behind the counter fires up YouTube and we start watching videos about adorable baby sloths, which I have to admit is a pretty good way to get your patients thoroughly relaxed. At least until I hear Beeker ask about a stool of some kind and the other tattoo artists begin good-naturedly joking about how “she’s a little slow” and “she rode the short bus to school”, which is exactly what you want to hear about someone before you get your first tattoo. Before I can get too worked up, though, Beeker gets back and takes me upstairs.

She immediately sets to shaving the inside of my arm. I’d researched this beforehand, wondering whether it was considered good manners to shave the area yourself before coming in if you’re a guy with enough body hair to make Robin Williams jealous. That finished, she takes the stencil and, with some careful thought, applies it to my arm.

“Be honest about how it looks,” she says. “This is on there for the rest of your life.”

I’ve spent a significant amount of time preparing myself for this moment. Generally speaking I’m pretty non-confrontational. If they bring me shitty food in a restaurant I just eat it and say it tastes great when they ask. I’m the type of person that if they put the stencil on wrong the first time, my first, second, and third inclination is to just say it looks great and deal with having a tattoo that I hate for the rest of my life. But I have carefully coached myself on this. This is a tattoo, I have explained to my inner Socially Awkward White Guy. This is Permanent. Do Not Fuck This Up.

The spacing looked pretty good. But not exactly right. After some debate back and forth and looking at it in the mirror from a few different angles, I asked her to adjust it so it was just a bit lower. She did, and it was perfect. She dragged out her laptop and said I was welcome to pick something to watch on Netflix while we waited for the stencil to dry. Well. Only one real option.

She came back after I was five minutes into Pipeline Fever and was ecstatic because she’s a huge fan of Archer. We discussed the different seasons as she got set up and explained what was going to happen. And then she put needle to skin.

Overall, it really wasn’t terrible. It’s hard to describe the exact sensation – it felt a little bit like burning, like you’ve just momentarily touched a hot pan, and almost a bit like a bee sting. Certainly not pleasant, but very manageable. Thanks to having a bad back I have a pretty solid pain tolerance.

As she worked her way through the tattoo we continued watching Archer and moving through pop culture, discussing our love of Game of Thrones, The Daily Show With Jon Stewart, the time she got her first tattoo when she was too drunk to remember it, the time that I filmed a tattoo being administered when I was at school and everyone was drinking and passing a bong around except me, because I was being responsible and, you know, filming.

The rest of it went swimmingly. The pain steadily decreased as she worked her way away from the wrist, except for one moment when she hit a nerve. Beeker finished, wrapped it up, thoroughly explained the post-tattoo care instructions, and that was that.

I’ve envisioned this moment more than a few times, and mostly it ends with me staring at the completed product and realizing, with a deep and unforgiving horror, that I hate it. This could not have been more different. As I stared at the completed product, I realized it was even better than when I’d first imagined it. It was like getting high-fived by Russell Wilson. It was amazing.

9/10 would recommend.

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