I Like Your Tattoo, Part 1

I've said yes a lot and lived many lives. This is my story.

Thanks! Generally, that’s a pretty benign and authentic reply. It only ever feels weird to me if they’ve got some as well and I don’t particularly like them. But I’m easy. I can usually find something I like and respond genuinely. I’ve also spent the last several decades learning to accept a compliment so I’ve been making peace with a simple thanks. I have either 13 or 11, depending on how you count them. Each one tells a story. Let’s hop on the wayback machine and start with when I was 14. I’d hang out in my dad’s class—he taught a vocational class for ages 16 and up on my high school campus. My summer breaks could get really dull because we lived on the outskirts of town so I’d go to class with him some days just to pass the time. I remember being obsessed with getting a butterfly tattoo on my shoulder. I also wanted to name the child I never wanted to have Noëlle Starlight so we’re clear on why 14-year-olds aren’t allowed to vote and get tattoos. I drew the butterfly over and over again, working out whether it would be a profile view or from overhead, whether the antennae would have curlicues at the ends, how big it should be, and exactly where on my shoulder it should be. I may even still have a little sketch of it somewhere in my box of memories. Everyone told me that I would regret it—I wouldn’t. If I’d gotten it then, I’d wear it like a badge of honor. I had a fascination with ink for as long as I can remember. By the time I was 17 and working at a video store on Sundays, I started doing my independent research. For weeks, I’d question every man who had ink on his arms about what it meant to them, what the conditions were around getting it, and did they regret the decision. The regrets were few and far between, and were usually a byproduct of a drunken impulse. I had my data and was ready.

At long last, I went to Cherry’s. She was a biker and did all the biker tattoos locally—to the best of my limited knowledge. I was doing some recon, asking her how much it would cost, et cetera. She sent me on my way after telling me it would be $40 and not to come back until I turned 18. I’m 19, lady! I returned some time later when I had the full $40 and brought my ID with me. I was ready to get that little heart I’d spent hours perfecting in style, size, and location. She was not having it. I wanted it on my upper arm and she told me I’d regret it, and tattooed it on my ankle. She sure was bossy. She tattooed me in spite, dare I say, of the longest decorated nails I’d ever seen on anyone back then. She took my money and we parted ways. I was instructed to stay out of pools and hot tubs for two weeks, which was a bit torturous since I practically lived in both. The first thing that happened is that I immediately lost all the red and thought maybe I was at fault for swimming two weeks later. The second is that I wore a band-aid over it for years at work under my nylons (I know, ew!), so as not to draw attention to myself. An older lady I worked with, Jeannie, sold me out. After pretty much every single person who worked in my office got to do a drive-by and comment on it, I stopped wearing the small circular band-aid over it. The third thing is that decades later, when working at the corporate headquarters of a Fortune 500 company, one of my coworkers spotted it and said she had the same one on her ankle. I replied, “I know how old you are now because we must be the same age.” (I was right). I wanted a heart because I always said that I believed in love. I guess it’s really hard to be original when you’re 19 but maybe what I meant was that regardless of my parents’ awful marriage, I believed in something better. It made sense at the time.

My second tattoo was of a star. I went to see a guy named Tim on Market street in SF. He was recommended to me by my friend Teresa, who showed me her Grateful Dead dancing bear tattoo on her butt when I was hanging out with her. I was 21 and had just found out that the guy I had been crushing on had also been crushing on me. I was in 7th heaven. And not long after the big reveal, there was an even bigger reveal. He’d left town without telling me and started dating someone else. That’s why I was depressed. Naturally, the antidote is a tattoo. I climbed up the dark narrow stairs to the second floor, asked for Tim, and told him I wanted a star way below my bellybutton, but not so low that it required grooming. What I didn’t tell him was why. I was in dire need of remembering that regardless of the fact that my heart was crushed and forgotten about, I was a lucky individual with a lot going for me. So I wanted a lucky star that I could see. Decades later, I would meet one of my BFFs-to-be and would discover that not only did we have adult braces in common, we both had a star tattoo in the same place.

Teresa, of dancing bear butt tattoo fame, ended up being the reason I also got my third tattoo and got married for the first time. She worked at a beautiful, three-story retail shop that was the new age, eco-friendly, ethical, and very expensive answer to your average JC Penney’s or Sears. I worked down the street so we’d spend lunches together at the water’s edge in Emeryville with my toes in the water. The day I bought my baby blue ‘67 VW Fastback and couldn’t figure out where reverse was, I ran back into the store to ask her. She drove a similarly-aged Karmann Ghia. The secret is in the second gear. This was 1989, the year RE/Search Publications released the seminal Modern Primitives book, complete with a section on tribal tattoos. I was mesmerized by the beautiful tribal designs. I spotted a scorpion design from Borneo and knew this had to be on my body. Side note, when conducting incredibly informal research of astrological sign tattoos on hundreds of people at a pool party, I came across the realization that Scorpios love telling the world who they are at a surprisingly large ratio by comparison to all the other signs. It’s either a source of pride or a warning label. You decide. You probably know a Scorpio or two.

Since I didn’t have a lot of money back then, I brought tracing paper and a pencil to the store with me and traced the design out of the book. I then found a tattoo artist, Chuck (C.W. Eldridge) on San Pablo Avenue, who was willing to do the honors. Chuck had studied under the well-known D.E. (Ed) Hardy. I brought him my design after customizing one area with red, and gave him the size and placement I wanted. It felt like he was scraping my spine with a knife for an hour or so. It hurt so much that I was able to compartmentalize it and not think about it too much. I was so proud of my unique design. For sure, you have to understand that I had no way of knowing that several years later, every bro was going to have a tribal design on one arm, or both, or legs, or every limb. I wanted that design because it was not typical or expected. I loved how cool it looked with its pointy tips. It looked so strong. I identified with being a Scorpio and loved feeling the strength, if you’re into that stuff. I’m not saying I was the first woman in the Bay Area to get a tribal tattoo but I would bet I was definitely one of the first.

During one of my visits with Teresa, she told me that her coworker saw me and really wanted to be introduced. I’m not really a fan of blind dates and wasn’t taking any interest. It took several attempts for me to even consider it. I think what finally got me to accept was when I asked if she’d go out with him if she didn’t have a boyfriend and she said yes. So I said yes. Some years later, I said the equivalent of yes when I said “I do” at the Heart of Reno Chapel when we eloped. I guess technically Teresa was responsible for two tattoos and one husband. She did alright as far as friends go. I regret not staying in touch over the years but our friendship connected some important dots in my life and I’ve always looked back on it fondly. Also, she was the only person I knew who drove a Suzuki Samurai once the Karmann Ghia was no longer.

I was now hooked on ink. It’s like eating potato chips. Like eating very expensive and sometimes painful potato chips.

(To be continued)

@2026 Fabienne Jach. All rights reserved.