I Got My First 8 Tattoos Over the Holidays
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Punk Rock Tree — photo by Matt Barrowman (Instagram and Phatography) — used with permission
The tattoo artist worked meticulously but quickly on my knuckle tattoos as I sat hunched over in a straight-backed chair, my arm resting on a paint-splattered wooden table. It was one of those fuzzy days between Christmas and New Year’s when time ceases to have any meaning and our actions have zero consequences.
I’m perpetually online so I’ve seen all the end-of-the-year posts. All of them. Literally. Fun fact: I scrolled all the way to the end of the internet and started over again at the beginning before the calendar flipped over to 2025.
During my endless scrolling, I discovered that a few days after Christmas, Janet from New Mexico posted on TurquoiseHaze or whichever app we all use now: “Today is Saturday. Yesterday was Saturday. And tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll be taking no follow-up questions.”
I felt that one.
Not to be outdone, Daniel from the Upper Peninsula posted this jaunty little number on Spools or whichever other app we were using for a while until it turned out to be as evil as that other one: “The week between Christmas and New Year’s is the calendar equivalent of Las Vegas. What happens here, stays here.”
I felt that one, too. As did many others. Both posts were huge hits with human platform users and bots alike. They were stolen and reposted with tiny variations thousands of times. Of course, there is little doubt that Janet and Daniel (neither of whom exist in case that wasn’t clear) copied from countless other users who have made the same observation every December since humankind invented the holidays and blogs.
The end of the year is stressful so this annual reminder that the last week of the year is a consequence-free blank space in which no one knows what day of the week it is and everyone gives in to their most hedonistic desires came as a huge relief to me. I was so wound up and after weeks of moving a little elf around the house every night and providing tech support for the incomprehensible gifts my kids received, I was ready to let loose.
And by let loose, I mean get my first eight tattoos after living a miserable 43-plus years on this planet with completely non-tattooed skin. I was way overdue to get inked. And hey, if I didn’t like them, it was no biggie because this liminal week doesn’t count for anything. It’s like gambling on a cruise ship in international waters. If you lose all your money, they have to give it back. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.
I didn’t have any tattoos before the events described in this story, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t intrigued by them. I admire quite a few celebrities who have tattoos. I follow several tattoo artists on Instagram. And my wife has a few tattoos that I’ve observed over the years. Tattoos have always seemed cool, mysterious, and a little roguish. They are also intimidating—particularly the idea of entering a tattoo shop and asking to get one.
Pretty much anytime we pass by a tattoo place when we’re driving somewhere together or on vacation I quip to my wife, “Might be time for me to get some ink!” That line always cracks us both up because it is patently ridiculous. Like, imagine me of all people walking into a tattoo shop. What would I do? Ask for one of each?
I wouldn’t even know where to start and the whole situation just seems incredibly awkward.
Hi, there… my good sir! Yes, could you please paint my body with your needle gun?
How silly. Tattoos are for cool people and those who know how to navigate mundane interpersonal interactions without extreme anxiety.
Luckily, I found a loophole and was able to avoid any awkwardness because on an unseasonably warm late December day the tattoo shop came to me! In addition, the stars truly aligned because I had the perfect idea for a tattoo (or 8 tattoos as it were) gifted to me somewhere between one and five days prior. My children gave me Green Day’s American Idiot Twentieth Anniversary Edition vinyl record for Christmas and the album included this photo on the inside that features, you guessed it, tattoos!
Rage and Love — Interior of the 20th Anniversary American Idiot by Green Day album cover
So there I was, sitting at the table, idly looking at whatever it is I always look at on my laptop screen while the tattoo artist went to work on my hands. I tried to distract myself as much as possible because I was nervous as a first-timer, and if I’m being honest, the artist seemed a bit inexperienced.
“Stop moving!” she said, pausing her work and adjusting her angle of attack. The amount of franticness in her voice wasn’t particularly comforting.
As I watched her make fine adjustments to my shiny new hand tattoos, I had a sudden and vivid memory of sitting at this table about a year and a half before. On that day, I was seated across from the very same person who was currently going to town on my skin. At the time of our previous meeting, she was in the restaurant business and she grilled me relentlessly during what turned out to be the most bizarre job interview of my life.
Inexplicably, that infamous interview included some bloody heart imagery very reminiscent of the American Idiot album cover:
“Act like you’re pulling your heart out of your chest with your hand and show it to me,” my interviewer whispered to me.
The parallels between the two days were quite striking.
Exterior of the 20th Anniversary American Idiot by Green Day album cover
I don’t know exactly when she switched gears and got into the fine art of tattoos but it didn’t matter. I trusted her implicitly. And it’s not like tattoos are permanent or anything. Particularly not during this week of all weeks. The week that exists outside of time and space.
My tattooist (is that the right word… I’m going with it) must’ve had a light touch because I barely felt a thing during the five- to ten-minute tattoo application. The only pain came when she wrenched my arm so she could get a top view of the lettering. As all you tattoo veterans know, arm wrenching is a key step in the tattooing process. Her eyes flicked back and forth from the photograph inside the album that was propped up on the table to her handy work on my hands. She gave a little shrug as if to say, “Yeah, sure… that’ll do.”
Exactly the type of reaction you want from your tattoo girl.
In the end, I was pleased with the final product. To my eye, the craftsmanship was of high quality and I looked sufficiently hardcore when I was sweeping off the trampoline with a hefty dose of “rage” and “love.” Those leaves and acorns didn’t stand a chance.
I proudly showed off my new tattoos to the neighborhood kids when they stopped by the house to bounce on the trampoline and raid our snack closet. They showed zero interest but what do they know, anyway?
I was looking forward to dominating the New Year with my fresh ink but a funny thing happened along the way. As is so often the case when you’re a parent (or just a person, I guess) all these weird moments and days and years that seem to exist outside of time — and don’t so many of them feel that way no matter where they fall on the calendar? — have a way of suddenly ending.
Sometimes they leave visible marks but often they disappear leaving behind only a ghost of a memory.
That restaurant I interviewed at a year and a half ago? It closed its doors sometime between then and now and I’m not sure if it will ever reopen. A hand-drawn sign that read “Olivia’s Restaurant” hung above the door for what seemed like years but now it’s gone. I don’t remember when it left.
And before the restaurant, there was a hair and nail salon I used to frequent that had irregular hours and highly questionable sanitary practices. My tattooist worked there with a couple of her closest associates. They painted my nails, brushed my hair, and made me stick my bare feet in a tub of lukewarm water for some reason. That place shut down years ago.
There was no fanfare. No warning. No going out of business sale.
The restaurant and the salon faded away. Like the last of the light on a winter evening. Like a day at the end of December that hardly exists. Like knuckle tattoos etched in ink that might as well be invisible because it’s hard to believe they even existed at all.
Everything we know and love tends to fade and change and become fuzzy around the edges until it's almost unrecognizable. If we’re lucky, sometimes it re-forms into something new. Something fresh and exciting.
Like a pop-up tattoo shop.
But other times, the only thing left behind to remind us of all those weird and wonderful things that came before are fading memories. Echoes. Faint outlines of old tattoos.
Sometimes we don’t even get that much.
Sometimes it all disappears.
Sometimes it feels like it never happened at all.
Like a forgotten day in a week that hardly existed.
No More Rage and Love
Andrew Knott is a writer of essays, humor, and fiction. You can subscribe to his newsletter for updates. His debut novel Love’s a Disaster is available now.