I can’t remember how old I was when I first knew I wanted a tattoo. I also don’t recall anyone who had one. Despite 22-years in the Navy, my father retired without one. He isn’t a fan of them.

As a kid, I obsessed over the temporary ones you could get in packs of gum or from the quarter machines in the store. I raided more than a few change buckets, hoping to score a rose or a heart or a flower to transfer to my skin. Then, a parental warning came out about people who wanted to harm children by putting drugs or poison in the tattoos. Mother allowed no more after that.

What prevented a teenage DIY tat came down to the needle. I’ve gotten better as I’ve aged, but I hate them. As a child, they sent me into hysterics. I remember how crushed I felt when I found out Tattoo Artists applied the real ones. No way, no how was I letting a needle jab into my skin like that. No matter how much I wanted one. It wasn’t only the thought of the dreaded needle, but I was also respectful of the fact real ones were forever. There was no washing these off.

After I had my son and graduated from high school, I decided the desire for a tattoo overpowered my fear of the needle. What stopped me from rushing out and getting one was I had no idea what I wanted. I popped into shops from time to time to look or talk to an artist. The same flowers and hearts I’d coveted as a kid and filched coins to get didn’t have the same appeal for my adult self.

I can’t remember if I asked or he did it on his own, but a coworker at the time designed something for me. He did it on a piece of yellow notebook paper with a ball-point pen. It was perfect. I kept it tucked in my wallet for almost a year until I worked up the courage to walk into Pricz Tattoos (I lived in Las Vegas at the time). I recall feeling scared shitless and sweating like mad, but after the Tattooist drew the first line, it was a done deal. I couldn’t walk away with a black line across my arm, could I? It wasn’t a horrible experience because I went back to have an addition made to it almost a year later.

Cameo’s first & second tattoo

It’s my favorite one and the one with the most meaning of the bunch. My son was a few years old when I got it done. When he was learning his name and birthday, sometimes when I’d ask him “How old are you?” or “What is your name?” he’d climb up on my lap, draw up the arm of my shirt, and point to it.

They say tattoos are like potato chips; you can’t have just one. While it took me over 10 years to get number three, there has been a steady stream of them after that. One and two morphed into 13 total, with 14 and 15 coming for my birthday in January (2021).

Each one has a meaning behind it. Whether it be my love of cats and owls or immortalizing my favorite stuffed animal, I inked none of them without thought and a story behind it. And there are in places I never would have contemplated in my teens and 20s: chest, neck, and both inner arms hold masterpieces of work that tell a story.

My body is a canvas… and I’m not finished yet.