“This is going to be great in your portfolio.”
She barks out a laugh. “Ha! Like I’m putting my own face in my portfolio . . . Talk about a vanity piece,” she grumbles.
She studies the full coverage below my elbow, running her fingertips over the ink. “Are you cool with me going into this with white? Just to make sure it flows . . . And I think we should touch up some of your black too, so it blends naturally.”
“Whatever you want, Chaos. I trust you.”
She grasps my wrist with her gloved hand and sanitizes my biceps and forearm with green soap before going in with a disposable razor to remove any hair. Afterward, she wipes itwith antiseptic. The stencil sits on her clean station cart in four different pieces.
After she gets the first three stencils placed, the last one on the bottom proves difficult to match up with the other pieces, so she has to cut and adjust it to get it to cooperate. Kelly doesn’t speak, just furrows her brow, determined to make it work. She peels off the final stencil from my arm, offering a preview of the finished product in bright indigo. I’m in love.
“Okay, stand up, take a look in the mirror.”
The way she’s created it to blend in with the ink on my forearm is so fucking cool. My smile nearly splits my face. “Incredible.”
She shakes her head with a half grin. She knows it’s awesome but is too preoccupied by pretending to be annoyed with me. When she’s finished filling her ink caps and has arranged her everything to her liking—my arm included—she takes ink into her 5 round liner needle. The illustrative sketch is made up of different line weights; some mimic the slash of a pen, varying in size up to thick paintbrush strokes. She has an array of needles arranged by size in unopened pouches on her tray. She’ll be switching these up during the session, but she’s starting with the more delicate sections toward the top.
Her eyes find mine. “Ready?”
I nod, and she exhales. As soon as she pulls that first line on my shoulder, I sigh with relief. Putting her face on such a prominent part of my body, one I’d been saving for her, is my offering—and she’s taken it.
Over the years, I’ve watched her tattoo hundreds of times, but this is different because I am the one under her needle. She’s done work on her friends and the other guys at the shop with little things for practice, but I didn’t want her to mark me until she was ready for more than just practice. This is about permanence.
“You could have had anything here. Why my face?” she asks.
She’s not ready for that answer, so I sidestep the question, letting her focus. “Don’t think of it as your face. You’re tattooing a piece you made. It’s art that just happens to be your face.”
Pride fills my chest while watching Kelly work on me. Her lines are clean and sure. I’ve witnessed her progression over the years, seen her struggle through the days of riding the tube and uneven shading to the sharp lines and smooth curves she makes on me today.
She lifts the machine and anchors her elbow, ensuring she has the correct depth.
“Nice pressure,” I mutter.
She flicks her eyes to mine for a brief second. “You’re not allowed to critique me while I work.”
I smirk. She’s more confident than she was the other day when I presented her with my request. “That wasn’t a critique, it was praise.”
“It was apositive critique,” she argues. “You chose to have my face on you forever, which means you forfeit your right to any commentary.”
I chuckle. “That’s not really how apprenticeships work.”
“That’s how this is going to work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
The corner of her mouth tilts into an amused grin. She works in silence for the next twenty minutes or so, and I get to stare all I want.
“Are you all packed for Bozeman?” I ask. We fly out Friday morning—only four days away. I’m very familiar with how my body heals when it comes to ink, which means I’ll only be able to show off her work for a day or two at the expo before the scabbing begins to form. The timing is going to be tight.
“Yeah, I spent most of yesterday packing, just have to get my gear together.”
“Model still good to go?” I ask.
“Yup. She’s all set. If anything, I’m the one who’s getting cold feet.”
That surprises me. “Why?”
She shrugs while switching needles. “I’ve never tattooed for an audience before; what if I can’t focus? Not to mention, comparing my work to other artists . . . My impostor syndrome is going to flare up. Plus, you know, judges.”
