Why I’ll Never Get (Another) Tattoo

Tattoos aren’t what they used to be. True, some are still cringe worthy, but no one really shakes their head at them anymore. No longer are they attributed to prison or unclean sailor stories or your uncle’s creepy friend. The only people who are still shocked by ink are our grandparent’s age and who still use the term “Oriental”. The times have changed and the ink-on-skin shock factor no longer exists. Except, maybe for the occasional face or neck tattoo.

Despite their commonality, I have been planning to remove what my friends so lovingly refer to as my tramp stamp for the last few years. In fact, it has probably been almost ten years since I began the regret that (almost) always comes with getting a lower back tattoo, no matter what your age. If you disagree with that sentence, give it a couple of years and then revisit this article.  I’ve started shopping for one piece bathing suits and wrapping a towel around my waist when I walk from the pool to the chair. The symbol that I was once so proud of has now become an irritation; a talking point that I really don’t want to talk about.

Like so many other tattoo tales, mine began just after my 18^th birthday. I was convinced by my boyfriend-of-the-month to do it! I wouldn’t regret it, would I? I mean – a sun on my lower back was so individual to ME! A native Californian living on the East Coast. The sun labeled me as a proud outsider to my Maryland peers and soon to be out-of-state college roommates… a college on the beach… this tattoo would be special, right?

In the beginning I did my best (unsuccessfully) to hide it from my parents. I spent nights tossing and turning, trying to find a comfortable way to sleep without touching it. (I’ve revisited the same pain in the last few weeks, but I’ll get to that in a minute.) I loved it…, right? Yes! I loved it!

In fact, I loved it so much that I decided to add on to it a couple of years later, because this time I was REALLY in love and wanted to surprise my boyfriend with a symbol that signified my devotion to him and to our relationship. I didn’t put his name on my back, but it was close enough. Oh – I should also mention that his reaction when I showed him the printout of the tattoo on paper before I revealed it on my skin was less than enthusiastic.  “Oh… no, please don’t do that.” Too late. He broke up with me a week later. True story.

Here are a few conversations that I’ve actually had over the last decade: “Oh, that? It’s just an inside thing my girlfriends and I had in college and I wanted to memorialize it!” Or, “Sure! I can cover it up for every single game and appearance, NFL!” Luckily the NBA wasn’t as concerned with the ink on my back, but by then I was a pro at tattoo cover up. I was also a pro at removing thick beige make-up from the waistband of my cheerleading skirt.

But I still loved it, didn’t I? I mean, the sun (kind of) meant that I was a CALIFORNIAN! And what’s better, now I LIVE in California! And with that realization, tagging myself with a sun became a little futile. And naturally, oh irony, I’ve come to despise the hot weather that we Westsiders now endure. I even (gasp!) long for cooler rainy days or snow, which will never come. I would have been better off with the logo for the Four Seasons stamped on my bumper.

So fast forward to the present. My determination to get my act together this year and check a few things off of my list became my priority, including the tattoo removal, which migrated to the top of the list. So I did my research. I spoke to friends, interviewed doctors, read reviews of popular tattoo removal dens. I knew which lasers were which and what type of results each claimed to provide. The doctor’s reputation was far more important to me than the price. I didn’t care about getting a good deal or discounted rate at a less than reputable clinic. It is my body after all.

Finally I called to schedule a consultation with a Board Certified (important) Plastic Surgeon (important) located in Beverly Hills (not important, just sounds good), who also just so happened to be a woman (bonus!). The consultation itself was $100 but if I decided to move forward with the procedure, the cost would be applied to the total cost of the tattoo removal. More on the cost later. When the receptionist on the phone asked me if I would like to be treated on the day of the consultation, I tentatively but optimistically replied YES!!

Now, there is a reason I call myself the Westside Muse. I’m comfortable on the Westside. I know the Westside. I love the Westside. I speak the language. Dump me east of the 405 and I am a fish out of water. Especially in the 90210 zip code. So I did my best to look the part. I showered. I changed out of my yoga pants and rainbows. I put on shoes with straps and buckles, which later face down on the table, I realized was not only unnecessary but also ridiculous. Before I left my house I looked in the mirror, re-parted my hair, shrugged, grabbed my most expensive handbag and drove off.

The office was smaller than I imagined but no less glamorous. Despite the large windows, the lighting was soft, which I always find soothing and reassuring. There were promotions for procedures that I didn’t know existed strategically placed on the tables and walls. When it was my turn, I showed the nurse the size of the mistake on my back. Without raising an eyebrow, she gave me the estimated cost which I was hoping would only be around $1,500 but actually ended up looking more like my entire Christmas bonus. So I swallowed my pride and asked if they could break up the payments as I dug into my Louis Vuitton. Yes they could!? No excuse now. I pulled out my Amex and shut my eyes as I handed it over.

Shortly thereafter, I met Dr. Nazarian, a tall, beautiful, make-up-free hair-in-a-ponytail goddess in scrubs. She was exactly my age and within 3 seconds I felt right at home in her posh Beverly Hills office. She had with nothing short of a grotesque sense of humor for the tattoo removal process. We discussed the laser, possible side effects during the healing (wait, what?), and then she mentioned locking her kids away when they turn 18 because almost all of her patient’s stories started with “When I was 18…”. This made me wonder what the regret factor is if you wait until you are a more mature age, like, say 30 to get a tattoo. When I asked again apologetically about splitting the cost into a couple of payments she laughed it off like she’d seen it a million times. Which I sincerely doubt, but I appreciated.

I’d like to pause here to mention that tattoo parlors do us a major disservice by choosing NOT to show a video of what the removal process actually looks and feels like, not to mention what it costs. With skydiving, for example, you watch a long video that describes every possible way that you could die and then you sign a huge waiver BEFORE you participate. With tattoos, almost always a far more permanent experience, no such warning video exists.

The technology for tattoo removal lasers has improved over the past couple of years. Thank God. No longer is the tattoo removed by extreme heat from the laser, but rather a defragmenter which (essentially) breaks up the ink which is then eliminated through the body the same way any toxin is eliminated. Through staying super hydrated. Follow me?

Dr. Nazarian suggested injections of Lidocaine rather than the numbing cream prior to the laser procedure. The numbing cream for a tattoo this large, apparently, would be a pitiful attempt to mask the pain. Some colorful descriptions of the pain from the laser were explained to me as a bunch of small electrocutions on my skin – or – a million burning rubber bands snapping along my skin. Great. So, the injection to numb the area sounded like a plan to me! Here’s the thing, either way, it feels like torture. Whether torture by laser or needle, it didn’t really matter.

I like to pride myself on my tolerance for physical pain. As a tried-and-true tomboy I grew up with bruises, blood, scars, you name it, I had it. I was also a gymnast where the term “suck it up!!” was engrained into my psyche. Physical pain? I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I could take it.

So I attempted (unsuccessfully) to climb in a graceful manner onto the table in my previously mentioned shoes with 3 inch heels and buckles. The paper crinkled under me as I tried to make myself comfortable and decide which direction to angle my neck. Did I look stupid dressed up on the table? Yes. I decided I definitely did and would be wearing my yoga pants for the following treatment.

I chose to face the supply counter, which was a mistake.  I didn’t turn my head fast enough and saw the massive needle that the doctor would use to inject my back with Lidocaine. I looked away in fear and horror and tried to find a happy place on that table. Not likely.

Injection time came and went with such a fury of pain, sweating and shaking you would have thought that I was in labor. I’m a needle veteran. After years of birth control shots and Botox, (What? I’m not supposed to admit that?) I thought I could handle a couple injections to numb my back. What I thought would be one or two pokes actually seemed to be 50 – 60. But, in reality there were probably only about a dozen jabs of the burning solution that would soon numb my back and also give me some pretty intense heart palpitations. I learned that they also use epinephrine in Lidocaine. Did you know that? Neither did I. Once the worst pain of my life was over and the doctor stopped the shots, I asked her if the worst had passed. “Oh, I’m just stopping to refill the syringe. I just finished your lower area, but now need to do the upper.” WHAT THE F…????  She had to refill the syringe 3 times total to inject enough numbing solution in order for me to avoid any pain from the laser. What type of laser was this??  By the way, my cute top that I chose to wear was now damp with sweat. This is not an exaggeration. It’s an embarrassment.

When I was in college I was lucky enough to experience the joy of a spinal tap. What took place so many years ago seemed like child’s play compared to what was taking place on the operating table at this moment. What seemed like an eternity later, the death stabs subsided and the PicoSure laser was turned on. The good news is that the shots seemed to work (almost) and I hardly felt a thing besides a light tapping on my skin. The entire laser procedure took only a couple of minutes and before I knew it, my black ink tattoo was all white. As if I had just received a brand new tattoo in bright white puffy paint. “That’s it?” I said, defeated, as I propped myself up and peeled the paper from the table away from my forearms.

Somehow I managed to regroup and slid off of the table on to the floor. Dr. Nazarian handed me a tube of laser procedure gel to apply and told me to use it frequently to avoid some of the epic healing side effects that I had to look forward to. I tried to thank her but my mouth was so dry that my tongue stuck to the room of my mouth. The side effects of the Lidocaine were traumatic enough. What would the side effects from the laser look like?

The receptionist cheerfully greeted me as I approached the front door and asked when I’d like to schedule my follow-up appointment. Oh my god. I was reminded that there would be several treatments. Not 10 or 20, like the old technology subjected their victims to, but at least 3 and possibly even 6! I said a silent prayer that mine would only take 3 treatments to disappear completely. The receptionist then informed me that she had a treatment as well earlier in the year and didn’t use any numbing remedies. I tucked my tail between my legs and opened my calendar (turned on my iPhone) to find a date that seemed like a good day for agony. Dr. Nazarian noted, at this moment, that I would forget the pain. “It’s just like childbirth,” she exclaimed. On that note, after this experience, count me out for that as well.

I slid on my sunglasses as I waited for the elevator, because Beverly Hills, and as soon as I walked out of the building I called my parents to apologize for ever thinking a tattoo at 18 years old would be a good idea. I assured my father that I had sufficiently learned my lesson and that he could bask in the glory of being right – so many years later.

Oh – I promised to write about the side effects from the laser that are part of the healing process. Yes, it was seriously uncomfortable for the first few days. It felt like someone kicked me in the back with a burning hot iron attached to the bottom of their boot. My skin crawled as the numbing wore off and I touched it with the cold gel I was supposed to put all over the area.  But, besides being very tender for a couple of days, I can only thank Jesus for having mercy and sparing me the intense itching and scabbing and blisters that I went home and read about via google that night. A little less than 2 weeks later, the tattoo started peeling off. Like a sunburn – ink stained skin peeled away leaving a faded version of regret.

Now, everywhere I look, I see people my age and younger decorating themselves in ink. I’ll get an arrow on this forearm and a feather on the other! And I’ll put a sentimental quote along my rib cage and my niece and nephew’s birthdate on the back of my neck where no one will really notice it!

I have a new attitude about the whole thing. I envision them all on that terrible table dealing with the pain of either the needle or the laser, eyes welling up with big old regret tears. I’m well aware that no one with a tattoo will admit regret while reading this. I’m not naïve. I was exactly the same way for years. All of the above mentioned tattoo ideas were my ideas at one point or another in the months leading up to the first removal session. And even though there are REAL reasons to get a tattoo, mine wasn’t one of them.

I never thought that way about other’s tattoos before that scarring (pun intended) afternoon in Beverly Hills. I was a firm believer in self-expression, and I guess I still am, but now I see tattoos differently. I hope that the walking canvases that we’ve become, (and now I’m trying to un-become) are more committed to the (almost) permanent skin sketches. I want to put up warnings everywhere that say, “Beware! Colored ink is almost impossible to remove!” Or – “It will cost you at least 10 times as much to remove that dream-catcher from the back of your leg as it did to put it there!”

As I am writing this and reflecting on this painful experience, I can’t help but notice the similarities between tattoos and marriage. Yes, both are supposed to be permanent. And yes, you can go to an expensive office in Beverly Hills for removal if you decide you can’t live with your decision, but the process of separation from either is painful and lengthy and expensive. And if you’re lucky, you can get away with only minimal scarring or no signs of it at all, except perhaps for a wiser understanding of the world and hopefully a compassionate side for those experiencing a similar removal from something they once believed they would want forever.

But for now, Westsiders, avoid the pain of removal by waiting until your head, heart and gut are all in alignment before taking the (ink) plunge.

xx,

WM

 

Before and after pictures to come but in the meantime, check out how amazing Dr. Nazarian is.