Her Fifth Tattoo

As she led on the bench, her hip aching under her body weight, she couldn't help but stare at the door of the tattoo parlour and think, if anyone were to walk in right now they would see me in my knickers? She imagined a group of uni lads bustling through the door, loudly chatting to each other about their lads holiday and the matching tattoo they were about to get. Until they saw her, led there on her side, with her frilly white knickers on display in their full glory, would they laugh? Probably.

But was it worth it? For the tattoo? Definitely.

This wasn't her first tattoo, in fact, it was her fifth. But she was nervous about this one. It had to be perfect. Not good, she didn’t want the tattoo to look ‘kind of’ like the drawing, it had to BE the drawing. A perfect trace, each line etched meticulously into her thigh.

The tattoo artist, one she had used before, was good, but she wasn’t perfect, Kathy knew this and it worried her. Her lines often bulged in places, the proportions often skewed and then there was that one unfortunate miscalculation with a date in roman numerals, but she couldn’t afford to think about that now. In fact she couldn’t afford to think of an alternative at all, it was the reason she was back here. Back in the chair of the tattoo artist who was good but not perfect. Thanks minimum wage, this place will have to do.

In that moment, whilst the tattoo artist was prepping her station, and Kathy was led on her side, her trousers scrunched down at her knees, her frilly white knickers on show, she felt a wave of doubt roll over her. Should she have just waited? Should she have saved for longer so she could afford to go to a better tattoo parlour? Was this a mistake?

But deep down she knew she couldn’t wait. From the moment she saw the drawing, she fell in love. She knew it needed to be a part of her. She didn’t want to frame it or carry it in her purse, she wanted to carry it on her body. She needed this tattoo to become a piece of her identity, something that would be a part of her not just for her whole life but beyond her death too.

The tattoo was a simple one, a drawing of a cartoon barn owl.

He was about the length of her hand. He had a round fluffy face, large wings draped at his sides and a chest full of long soft feathers. His expression was sleepy, but content. As if he was tired after a really good day and was happy to go to sleep at the prospect that tomorrow would be even better.

And he wore a night hat, a long fabric one that covered his head and drooped to the side with a bobble at the end.

He had no colour, only black with traces of grey where he was sketched first in pencil and then solidified by pen. Kathy loved this element of the drawing in particular. The confidence of it. After sketching the design roughly in pencil, and without a single alteration or use of an eraser, the artist, pleased with his first attempt, confirmed it in pen.

To change it after the fact would mean to completely discard the drawing and start again. And if he did that, it would simply not be the perfect drawing of an owl that it is right now.

“Ready?” The tattooist asked from behind Kathy, tattoo gun in hand.

“Absolutely,” Kathy replied.

She had chosen to have the tattoo immortalised on her thigh for a couple of reasons. From a practical standpoint it made sense due to the size. It was the biggest tattoo she had to date and would probably be the biggest tattoo she would ever have. The simple line drawings she had on her arm and the quote lining her right breast dwarfed in comparison.

So she had considered the placement carefully. It was too bold for her arms, would be too painful to endure on her ribs and she wouldn't see it on her back. That left her legs.

She chose not only to have it on her thigh but the top of her thigh in particular, the top of the owl’s night cap almost grazing her left hip bone. It felt private here, intimate. A tattoo only she or her partner would see.

This tattoo wasn’t meant for the world after all, it was just for her. It wasn't a decorative piece like the other four, that looked elegant and served the same purpose that jewellery does, to accessorise her look.

It was special, it was a celebration of the artist. The greatest man in Kathy’s life. Her father.

As kids Kathy and her little sister saw their Dad every weekend, come rain or shine he was there every Friday to pick them up after school.

At the time he didn’t make it obvious but Kathy’s Dad did not have a lot of money, he worked hard but the little money he did make got taken by the government and passed on to their mother as maintenance. Money, they unfortunately never saw.

In fact it wasn't until she became an adult that she learnt that her dad often went days during the week without a proper meal in order to be able to afford to feed them on their weekend visits.

She thought about this as she felt the first pinch from the tattoo needles puncturing her skin. She thought back to how many times she had asked for a chocolate bar from the shop, he almost always said yes and she was so disappointed at times when he said no. How many potential meals had she stolen from him through the years, scoffed down her throat and covered in smarties.

The tattoo needles burned as they scraped across her skin, but she didn't mind. She deserved the pain. Being hungry was painful too, she thought. She would sit through it, for him. For this tattoo.

The tattoo artist worked on the grey lines first, carefully, line by line, she immortalised the owl onto her skin. Kathy hated needles, she had sat through her last tattoos scrolling mindlessly through her phone. But not this time, this time she watched the tattooist.

She was unable to see her face as she hunched over her thigh but Kathy wondered what she thinks about whilst she works? Is she thinking about her own dad? Did she have any tattoos dedicated to him?

“What a cute tattoo” The tattooist exclaimed, when Kathy came in with the design a few weeks earlier.

“Thanks”, she blushed, “My dad likes to draw”.

It was a simple answer but as soon as she said it Kathy didn’t like her response. It didn’t do the tattoo or the reason for its importance any justice.

Kathy’s dad did like to draw. That was true, and he drew often, especially at the weekends. He drew because drawing is cheap. At a time when he had to count his meals, he simply couldn’t afford to spend money on entertaining her and her sister.

She didn’t have weekends like her friends did, who sat on the school bus on Monday mornings talking about their trips to theme parks, cinemas or weekend breaks camping. The funny thing is, as she sat there, listening to them compete over who had the most fun filled weekend. She knew she had already won from the moment her dad picked her up on Friday. She had won because she got to spend her weekend with him, and they didn't.

Whilst the tattooist worked her way over the barn owl’s left wing, Kathy thought back to a typical weekend with her dad. Friday nights were for sausage and mash in front of the tv, Saturdays were for errands and Sundays were for watching the local football club match at the park.

Simple, but perfect.

A Saturday spent running errands would have probably seemed boring to Kathy’s friends she thought, but not with her dad. Her mind flicked back to the memory it always did when she thought about her dad and his drawings.

A Saturday morning sat on the steps outside of the local hairdressers. It was a busy day and the queue was long. Hair cuts were cheap back then but even so, she wondered how long her dad had had to save to be able to take her. How many things did he have to miss out on that week?

He said she really needed one, it had been a while since he had last taken her and at 7 years old with hardly any brushing, it was starting to look messy. Not that he told her that part, he only ever told her she looked beautiful.

So there they sat, on the steps outside of the hairdressers, waiting for their turn. It was boring waiting, it was taking forever. The hairdressers were so close to the park that Kathy could almost hear the children’s laughter. Her Dad, the mind reader, knew just what to do.

He pulled out his little notepad and pencil.

“Lets play a game” he said. “Guess the movie”

With a big smile on his face, he began drawing a book. It was small but detailed with its pages splayed open and its spine creased. Then it was suddenly covered in vines, leafy vines that draped over each page. They were so long they cascaded down the page of the notebook, almost as if they would keep growing and spool off the page into their laps. It was beautiful.

As he drew, Kathy’s Dad kept glancing at her face, waiting for her to guess what it was.

She was so mesmerised in his drawing that she forgot it was part of a game. She studied the book, covered in vines and leaves and sat puzzled for a second, what does it mean? Then it came to her, she gasped and started laughing.

“Dad!” she shouted, “It's the Jungle Book!”

He kissed her forehead, “that's right, well done. Now it's your turn”.

Suddenly waiting for the hairdresser wasn’t boring, in fact, as they took it in turns to draw out their favourite movies, she had wanted the queue to last forever so they could sit there on those steps all day.

“I’m just going to swap over to the black ink now hun”, suddenly she was back on the bench in the tattoo parlour, her trousers still hunched at her knees and her knickers still on display.

She studied the grey barn owl, standing sleepily on her thigh. He was beautiful, albeit a little red and swollen.

She gently ran her finger over his droopy night cap. This part was her favourite, it was an unexpected touch but made the drawing complete.

She picked a barn owl tattoo to symbolise her dad, and nothing was more accurate than a sleepy barn owl.

When she had asked her Dad to draw her an owl, she hadn’t said what it was for and he didn’t ask. He just grabbed a small notepad, sat down and sketched out the owl standing there with his droopy nightcap and a content sleepy expression on his face. It took him a matter of minutes to draw this cartoon now being inked on to her skin forever.

The owl also honoured her stepmom, the woman who came into her dad’s life shortly after that Saturday on the steps of the hairdressers, and saved him. In the twenty years together since, they had gone on to buy a house, have two children of their own and make lots more wonderful memories that Kathy and her sister felt blessed to be a part of.

Her step mum used to cut her dad’s hair, not because they couldn't afford the barbers but as an act of love, and she joked that when it grew to the point it needed cutting, it stuck up at the sides and he looked like an owl.

The nightcap was added to symbolise how tired he always was, a joke at himself, Kathy thought.

After having four daughters, Kathy’s dad aged some, and falling asleep in front of the tv became a frequent occurrence. No matter who happened to be visiting the house at the time.

As she watched the last of the black lines appear on her skin, she couldn't help but feel a huge wave of gratitude to the tattooist, it was identical to the drawing, not a botched line in sight. Had she known how important it was, without being told?

“That's it hun, we’re all done” the tattooist remarked.

She helped Kathy up and walked her over to the mirror where she stared at the owl in awe.

Her eyes filled with water as she stared at her fifth tattoo, the tattoo that honoured her dad’s love and self sacrifice that made her childhood a happy one.

“He’s perfect” She whispered, “Thank you”.