There Was This One Time
The Tattoo That Got Away
Welcome to a limited selection of unapologetic true stories about my missteps on the journey of self-acceptance and coming of age in the 1970s. These tales reflect my return to Northern California from Mexico after a turbulent childhood with my father, whose involvement in the budding Sinaloa Cartel shaped my challenges while finding my place in the world.
I had never celebrated my birthday. Not once. Growing up in a religion that forbade birthday celebrations meant that every year, when the calendar flipped to my birth date, it was just another day. No cake, no candles, no off-key singing from well-meaning relatives. But now, at eighteen, officially crossing over into adulthood, I wanted to mark the occasion in a way that was undeniably my own. I wanted a tattoo.
The problem? It was the early 1970s, and tattoos were almost exclusively for bikers and sailors—definitely not for young women. The only woman I had ever seen with a tattoo was Louise, an old woman in her late eighties who used to ride bareback in the circus at the turn of the twentieth century. She had "Baby Doll" inked on her upper left arm, though time and gravity had softened the once-bold black lettering to a weary shade of graphite. "Got it when I was fifteen," she’d tell me, her lips curling around the memory. "No regrets." I wanted to believe her. I wanted that kind of certainty. But permanence? That made me uneasy.
I waffled for weeks, torn between my newfound freedom and the nagging echoes of my former beliefs. The religion I had left behind believed that Armageddon was due in 1975. If that were true, then I had about four years left on this doomed planet. Why not go out inked, living boldly before the world ended? But what if the world didn’t end? What if I made it to thirty, forty, even fifty? Would I regret an impulsive decision made in a haze of rebellion?
Then, a brilliant loophole struck me. I would get a tattoo on my earlobe. A tiny one. If the world kept spinning and I decided later that I’d rather blend in with the PTA crowd, I could cover it with a clip-on earring or let my hair drape over it. It was the best of both worlds—rebellion with a built-in escape hatch.
At the time, tattoos weren’t as accessible as they are today. In the 1960s, most people got their ink in one of a few places: port cities, military bases, biker hangouts, and underground parlors run by self-taught artists. New York City had actually banned tattoos in 1961, so artists operated out of backrooms and basements. Bikers often got theirs from guys who learned the craft in prison, using makeshift machines fashioned from guitar strings and electric motors. The other option was to get inked in carnival tents, where tattooed sideshow performers often doubled as artists for willing customers, where Louise evidently got hers. But for someone like me, new to the whole idea, the options were limited to whoever I could find in my small corner of California.
That’s where Jack came in. My cousin had a tattoo done by a guy who had learned his trade in prison. "Hurts like hell," Jack warned, "but it’s worth it." Pain didn’t scare me. I was ready.
One evening, I climbed onto the back of Jack’s chopper, and we tore down Mendocino Avenue until we reached a single-wide trailer parked in a field. It had that unmistakable look—half forgotten, half lived-in. Jack knocked. The door creaked open, and out stepped a sallow-looking woman with a cigarette dangling from her bottom lip. She was so thin she’d have to run around in the shower to get wet. Jack nodded toward me. "She wants some ink."
She let out a slow exhale of smoke. "Doug’s inside."
At the kitchen table sat a huge, hairy man named Doug, rolling a Bull Durham cigarette with fingers thick as sausages. His arms were covered in a chaotic collection of ink—symbols, names, things that looked halfway between art and regret. He eyed me, exhaled through his nose, and nodded.
After a brief introduction, he told me to sit next to him. He pulled out some colored pens and, with surprising gentleness, began drawing a violet on my earlobe. "Live with it for a few days," he said. "Make sure it’s what you want."
I had chosen a violet for a reason. My grandmother, Beatrice, had been born in 1904 and had a deep love for violets. She kept flowerpots lined along her windowsills, each overflowing with different shades of blue and lavender. Her friends marveled at her green thumb, often begging for starts from her collection. She wore violet perfume—well, technically toilet water since real perfume was too expensive—but it smelled just as lovely to me. Even her dresser drawers were scented with violet sachets. When I looked at the tiny flower Doug had drawn on my earlobe, it felt like her arms wrapping around me, soft and reassuring.
I must have checked my reflection a hundred times over the next two days. Every time, I saw that violet and felt a thrill of defiance. I was marking my own milestone, choosing my own path. By the third day, I couldn’t wait any longer. I rushed back to Doug’s trailer, determined to make it permanent before his ink sketch faded completely.
This time, when I knocked, the same sallow-looking woman opened the door. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly before delivering the bad news.
"Sorry, hun. The sheriff hauled him off last night."
And just like that, my plan collapsed.
I stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do. The violet on my ear had already started to blur and fade as if Doug’s ink knew its own impermanence.
As I walked away from that trailer, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because life had a way of throwing curveballs when you least expected them. I had spent weeks agonizing over the decision, working through fear, doubt, and religious baggage, only to be thwarted by Doug’s poor life choices.
I stopped at a gas station on my way home, still feeling the slight sting of disappointment. The man behind the counter glanced at me as I stared at my reflection in the scratched-up security mirror. "First heartbreak?" he asked, smirking. I snorted, shaking my head. "Something like that."
EPILOGUE
Looking back, I realize that the tattoo itself was never the point. It was the act of choosing, the moment of rebellion, the celebration of self-determination. I had spent eighteen years being told what I could and couldn’t do, believing in an end-of-the-world prophecy that never arrived. But here I was, still standing, still figuring things out.
Maybe I didn’t need the ink to prove that. Maybe the act of walking away with my head held high was proof enough. Or maybe, just maybe, I’d find another tattoo artist one day and finally get that violet inked for good. In the meantime, I will take a sniff from the small bottle of violet perfume (toilet water) that once belonged to my grandmother, which I managed to salvage after her passing.