"Are you familiar with the concept of invisible ink?"
The first tattoo was an act of outright rebellion. As stereotypical as one can get: angry with my father and sixteen years old with a fake ID and cash in hand. After some deliberation — even then I examined all options — I determined to have it done where he was unlikely to see, in order to keep something in reserve should hostilities between us escalate. Just knowing it was there soothed my frustration, reminded me I had won even if he didn't know it. I chose my right hip and a small snake, tongue out in defiance. I survived another two years under my parents' roof thanks in no small part to that snake.
A tattoo's meaning is a personal thing, obviously, and one that evolves over time. It's like a palimpsest, with layers of identity and interpretation accruing over the years. My snake is no longer simply about anger and transformation; when I think about it today, it represents one of my first independent actions, a reminder of youth and self-determination. I'm more than a little sentimental about it now.
I've been thinking recently about getting another one. It's been a long time. The design hasn't come to me yet but I don't mind waiting for it. The desire to let my skin speak is not so strong I need to rush the process. I've made that mistake before and regretted it. Getting a tattoo is about trust, trusting that you know yourself well enough, at least in this moment, to commit to taking a stand, to standing in your own skin and accepting the pain and the permanence. It's worth waiting to be certain. Necessary.
We were between cases, each of us reading, mugs of tea at hand, as we have done so many evenings together. A log snapped in the fireplace, and I looked up to watch the flames, observing patterns and the flow of hot colors. After a little while, I turned to my friend.
"When did you get your first tattoo?" I asked him.