Something About Us

We Are Not What You Think We Are

Enter: Holiday Boulstridge

After a gruelling hour of getting stabbed repeatedly by a painfully sharp needle, my tattoo was complete. Though I had it placed on the right side of my ribcage the pain was so intense it felt like Francis "Frank" O'Connor was tattooing the middle of my chest.

When Frank handed me a mirror to inspect the tattoo I couldn't help but gaze at it with pride. Though the words were backwards in the mirror, the tattoo was great. The words were bold, with dark crisp lines. And no horridly embarrassing misspelling! "It looks incredible," I breathed in awe.

Frank smirked. "I know it looks incredible. I did it myself."

"Do you think this'll get Gerry off my case?" I asked sitting up a little. Frank's lids dropped and his smile disappeared. He was looking at me in the same way that my mother did when she was sorely disappointed in me. I felt nervous. What did I do wrong now?

"Don't tell me you got this thing because you think it'll satisfy Gerald."

"Well . . . I. . . look at you. No one's going to doubt your capability as a tattoo artist because of your tattoos. You've even got tattoos on your neck. You're a committed artist."

Frank kept giving me the look. "Holiday, do you really want to be a tattoo artist? Honestly and truly. Do you really want to commit yourself to this career?"

I swallowed hard. Suddenly it felt like all the expectations in the world were raining down on me. I could hear the voice of my mother who had all but told me I was intellectually worthless and should try doing something practical like my siblings. Then there was the voice of my father who was encouraging me to follow in his footsteps and study the visual and fine arts. One thing they both had in common was this shared belief that I should stay as far away as possible from the world of tattooing. I tried to shut their words out so I could hear my own thoughts but I couldn't.

"I really like tattooing," I finally managed. "It's the only thing I could ever imagine myself doing. This is the only career I think I'd ever be happy with."

Frank studied me. "I'm glad. You've got great artwork. But you have got to understand that having a bunch of tattoos doesn't make you a good tattoo artist. And you shouldn't get a tattoo to please someone. Ever. That's how you end up getting work burned off for a couple grand a few years down the line." Frank wiped the tattoo with disinfectant solution and then applied a bandage to my tattoo.