At 4:13, the front door to my shop opens and a woman with blond hair and an enormously puffy coat comes in, already talking.
“…and I completely forgot that they’re fixing the light over on Harrison, and that intersection where it crosses Salem Church took me absolutely forever to get through. And then of course I got stuck behind the school bus coming all the way down Smith Station, and you know they stop at every single house.”
“I hate getting stuck behind the school bus,” I agree, switching off my tablet and straightening up. “Welcome to Southern Star.”
“Anyway, sorry I’m late,” she says, and finally finishes shoving things into her purse. “I’m Mindy, I had an appointment?”
Then she looks around, taking everything in: brightly lit, big windows, incredibly clean. A lot of people seem surprised when they walk in, as if all tattoo shops are seedy dens of iniquity with dirty floors and walls hung with AC/DC posters from 1985.
Sure, some are. Plenty of people like that vibe in a tattoo parlor, but since mine’s the first and only tattoo place in Sprucevale — small, Southern, socially conservative — mine’s not.
Southern Star Tattoo Parlor is bright, cozy, and slightly kitschy. There’s a waiting area with a midcentury modern-looking couch, a natural wood coffee table, and a tall cactus that’s not doing spectacularly this winter. The floor in the front room is hardwood. There’s a teal accent wall with my logo painted on it in bright pink.
“Of course,” I say, cheerfully, still leaning on the counter. “Coverup consultation, right?”
Mindy comes right up to the counter where I’m standing. She looks over her shoulder, at the door, as if she’s nervous that someone else is going to come in, and she places her purse on the counter right between us. It’s got about thirty keychains hanging off one side, and they all clunk into the glass top.
“Yes,” she says. “You did one for my brother-in-law’s brother’s cousin’s friend and it turned out good, so he referred me on back to you.”
Excellent. I love a referral.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Jim Faulks,” Mindy says, and then leans in a little more, lowers her voice. “He just got out about six months ago? He heard about you from his parole officer.”
Right. One of the many things I did during Dating Detox was start volunteering with INKredible Transformation, a questionably-named nonprofit that helps ex-cons get their prison tattoos covered at no cost to them.
I think Jim had an ugly, poorly-done spider on one forearm. Now it’s a stylized motorcycle.
“Of course I remember Jim,” I say. “How’s he doing?”
“Back inside,” Mindy says cheerfully. “You know how people are.”
“Oh,” I say.
There’s a brief, awkward pause.
“Well, at least he’s got a better tattoo now. What do you need covered up?”
At the question, Mindy’s body language changes. She stiffens. She looks down.
I say a quick prayer that I’m not about to cover a swastika. I’ve done it a couple of times — people in prison aren’t there because they make great decisions — but wow is it uncomfortable.
“It’s easier to just show you,” she says. “In the back room, if that’s all right?”
“Of course,” I say, and double down on that prayer.
The back room of [tattoo shop name] is even more scrupulously clean than the front room, if that’s even possible. I go through buckets of sanitizer every week, and every Tuesday and Thursday night a professional disinfecting crew comes through.
It’s got mirrors, counters, two filing cabinets. A shelf of succulents along one wall, a colorful panoramic painting of the mountains, only they’re pink and purple.
On one side of the room there’s a reclining chair that looks like a dentist’s chair, and on the other side, I’ve got a massage table.
Mindy hangs her purse on a hook, then looks at me apologetically.
Mentally, I cross my fingers.
“It’s on my,” she pauses.
Looks away for a split second.
“Booty,” she admits.
I smile encouragingly. A booty tattoo I can handle.
“Not a problem in the least,” I say, and snap on gloves. “I’m gonna have you sit in a minute, but it’s best to get a look at it while you’re standing first, if you don’t mind pulling down — thanks.”
She’s already got her jeans over her butt, so I crouch down and study her ass. This position is always a little weird, but movement and gravity affect tattoos, so I like to get a look at them in all positions.
It’s a script tattoo, the lines thin and wispy, so many flourishes and curlicues that it’s total nonsense at first glance. Not a bad tattoo, but not a good one, either. Some of the ink is fading, a few of the lines are a little wobbly. A solid C+.
If she’d come to me, at the very least I’d have advised her away from that particular font. It’s almost impossible to read.