A few blocks later, I’m stepping through the front door of my shop that I co-own with another tattoo artist. “Hey, Arlo. What are you up to?”
They look up from their tablet. “Just doing some last-minute touches on this piece before my client gets here.”
“Is it that classic snake piece you showed me?”
“Yep.” They turn their tablet around to flash me the screen.
I step closer to take in the details. The shade of green they chose is perfect. The black shading and chartreuse highlights add dimension, making the snake look like it’s jumping out of the screen at you. “That’s sick.”
“Hopefully, he likes it. He was being a little wishy-washy over his emails, so I’m interested to see how this goes.”
“Well, if he hates it, it’s only stuck on him forever.”
We both laugh at our chronically dumb jokes we tell each other when we’re nervous about an appointment.
When I first started tattooing people, I didn’t realize how stressful it could be. Back then, I was blissfully ignorant until I had my first doozy of an appointment. It seemed like nothing could go right. I reprinted the stencil and tried it on about ten times before they were finally happy. And that was after redesigning what I thought they were describing several times before that. In the end, they were relatively happy with the work, but I think we were both too exhausted from the hours of stress to fully appreciate what I accomplished. Since then, I’ve spent years perfecting mycraft in an attempt to avoid appointments like that. But of course, they still happen from time to time.
“Well, good luck. I’ll be in my office if you need me for moral support.”
Arlo looks down at the snake with a hint of worry on their face. “Thanks.”
I get allbut one hour of peace before I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Raina, the third artist who works at our shop, slips through the door and shuts it behind her. She takes a seat on the chair in front of me, worry written all over her face. “Sorry to bother you, but it’s a little time sensitive.”
I sit up a little straighter in my chair. “Is everything okay? Something wrong with Winnie?”
“No, Winnie’s fine.”
Winnie is Raina’s 12-year-old daughter. She had her when she married her now ex-husband at a very young age. That was before she realized she hates men and has stuck strictly to women ever since.
“It’s about my surgery. They bumped it up to Wednesday, so my clients for the rest of the week will need to be rescheduled.”
“Okay, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
She looks down at her wrist that has her other hand wrapped around it. “Yeah…I’m just nervous. And I hate canceling appointments.”
Raina’s been needing surgery on her wrist for several years now, but she’s been putting it off. Taking time off when you’re a single mom isn’t an easy feat.I’ve been as helpful as I can, trying to encourage her to get the surgery that was going to happen eventually, whether she wanted it or not. This job takes a toll on our bodies, and she’s been doing this for fifteen years now.
“Listen, you message your clients, and if any of them are okay with switching artists, I’ll try to fit them in my schedule. Everyone else will just have to wait until after your recovery.”
Raina, Arlo, and I all have similar styles, so our repeat clients often use us interchangeably when scheduling conflicts arise. It’s always hard to change plans on clients, but sheneedsthis if she wants to continue her career as a tattoo artist.
“But–“
“Stop.”
She looks up at me, which she hasn’t been able to do since she sat down.
“I’m not taking no for an answer. Start messaging them now and get me a list by the end of tomorrow. We’ll get this all sorted out. You have plenty of other things to worry about.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Do you have someone to pick up Winnie from school on Wednesday?”
“Not yet, I?—”
