THE 'TATTOO' EXPERIENCE

Today, in between submitting students' results and negotiating with disappointed parents I slipped out for an hour and a half to get my latest tattoo. The pain was therapeutic in that it definitely made me forget about work! This is number 4 and probably my last. It is the image I dreamed and blogged about earlier this year. I stopped short of including the words I heard so clearly in the dream.

I had known him for about 15 years but Wayne was a new tattooist for me, which is a bit daunting because there is always the possibility that he might have been crap, or slack and given me some dreadful incurable disease with that needle. But I have found it's best, once the decision is made, to just give into these things and go with it.

He had worked at the local tyre workshop where I got my cars refitted. He was always good for a chat. In fact he talked a lot. I learned quite a bit about his complicated love life, his love of speedway and tattooing on the side. He had recently taken the plunge and gone pro. Wayne told me he now made as much money in one day as a tattoo artist as he made all week at the tyre place. I always liked him - just one of those instantaneous and illogical decisions. He talked very fast too and I always suspected he was a 'speed' freak off the track as well. Today he reassured me, without prompting, that he wasn't. He was fast though, and efficient.

The tattoo experience is quite surreal. Tattoo studios are a discrete culture in themselves. Once he knew I used a few expletives myself he relaxed and the conversation flowed naturally. He talked about the stress of being a tattooist: you're only as good as your last tat, some of the horror jobs he had had - like when he realised he had underquoted after a guy had taken off his shirt to reveal a very beefy back. And the woman who kept twitching so that in the end, after fixing quite a few wobbly lines, he advised her to come back later after a large dose of valium and mull - which apparently worked.

I learned about the politics of being a tattooist, how tattoo artists and bikies were inextricably intwertwined, how you had to make sure you only did work for one bikie gang - otherwise they were likely to burn your shop down. I also found out about the new breed of bikie. They aren't big fat bearded middle-aged guys who eat junk food any more, they wear hoodies, like me. What's the point of being a bikie if you can't wear the colours? This new breed are buff, they're on steroids, they're pumped - psychos. If you get in their way, they're dangerous.

I think Wayne did a great job. He said to me: line-work is my specialty, this is the new style - you don't go as deep - fine lines and tonal shading that's me, you've come to the right place for this sort of tat. Fascinating - I love the tat, and I reckon the conversation added value to the very reasonable $200 price tag.