By Amanda Knox
In a parallel, not-so-distant universe, I might have been a tattoo artist. In this one, I’m merely a tattoo person. I don’t have spider webs on my elbows or a big Chinese dragon coiled across my back. I don’t style my life or identity around being inked. That’s cool; just not for me. What I am is an enthusiast of the body as a canvas. I’m an admirer of the artistry. And I encourage everyone who’s on the fence about getting a tattoo to go for it. Just, be smart.
This past weekend my littlest sister, Delaney, turned eighteen, and to celebrate, she asked us—her three older sisters—to get a tattoo with her. It was chaos. In the days leading up to the big day, Delaney was out of town and incommunicado. Deanna, Ashley and I each separately called and visited the tattoo parlor multiple times, and offered the staff contradictory information. We changed our minds about the final design up to the last minute. We acted like a gaggle of newbs, except we weren’t. Between the three of us, we already had ten tattoos, and a bit of knowledge about the do’s and don’ts, the good and bad, and the right perspective to carry our littlest sister through her first tattoo.